


A Thousand Little Miracles

by nocturneequuis



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), and a bit of theology, and this, and whole bloody thing, as well as a hearty serving of existential crises, morosexuals, post lack of apocalypse, with emphasis on eff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-05-03 11:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 73,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis
Summary: Apocalypse averted, Aziraphale and Crowley are free to do what they want. Whatever they want. They just have to figure out what that is. And who they are, apart and together. No one planned on not having any plan and there are a lot more questions than there are answers. But at least they have each other....Don't they?





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> This work is mostly TV!Omens with Book!Omens thrown in when I feel like and a bit of My Own!Omens as well as any good fanfic ought to have. If you notice a discrepancy, it's probably just a secret.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the first September 3rd, Tuesday, of the rest of Aziraphale’s life, and he’s finding it’s not easy to be a free angel. There are far more questions now than there are answers, including one involving a certain demon in his life. But the biggest question of all is, now that he can do absolutely anything he wants– what precisely is there to do?

It was a Tuesday on the 3rd of September. One of those cool September days where Summer was no where near giving over to Autumn, but there was the promise of it in the wind whenever the shop door opened. Which was frequently. Aziraphale told himself not to be irritated by the jingle jangle of the little bells whenever he had a customer. Dreadful people, really. Oh, he understood and, in a way, admired them. Books were things of wonder and joy! But if only they wouldn’t touch them so much, getting fingerprints all over the beautiful embossed leather. Handiwork stitched lovingly into each spine. And there used to be a lot more of those than what he currently had. But even the more...modern volumes that had come with Adam's ...renovation, with their bright covers and their hardbound surfaces, deserved a little looking after. You couldn’t make a book without loving a little of it. Oft times he felt, somewhat guiltily, like a dragon sitting in a nest of cozy spoils; little spurts of love; old and a bit dusty, coming off here and there. And of course, the books themselves, completely invaluable! Not to mention expensive.

Which of course meant he was just asking for most of his beloved collection to be burned away in the searing fire of the apocalypse. Oh, there were still plenty of valuable pieces here and there. Adam had quite a keen imagination after all. Though many more had been lost irreparably to the flames.

He should be grateful it wasn’t his skin that was lost, he chastises himself. Or the world. Mercy.

And he is!

He is rather fond of being alive and of the Earth surviving as well! Especially since there’s that little tea shop opening on Regent Street ; and word was, in particular circles at least, that the owner was bragging of the most delectable orange chocolate crepe tortes this side of Soho! Aziraphale would believe it when he ate it, as he’d yet to meet an Englishman who could produce a proper crepe, even in this day and age.

“Don’t touch, please,” he said to an older gentleman who had reached mildly grimy fingers toward a first edition signed copy of the Pickwick Papers that had _thankfully_ survived. The novel itself wasn’t a particular favorite; and, to be honest, Aziraphale had only brought it out of sympathy for Charlie, who had gone on to become quite interesting indeed. It had a sentimental value that far surpassed any monetary value, which was ,in itself , quite considerable.

“I am looking to buy it.”

Aziraphale smiled at him over the copy of: ‘His Winsome Lass’. A thousand excuses tumbled through his mind, but he was frankly not in the mood for any of them. Sometimes direct was best.

“You can’t buy it. It’s not for sale.”

The gentleman seemed to chew on this a moment and Aziraphale sensed the argument brewing like a small storm.

“Why is it on the shelf, then?”

“Because I enjoy the look of it.”

The gentleman blinked, as if confused.

“But--”

Right.

 Aziraphale shut the novel he was reading with a clap and stood, stitching a smile onto his face.

“Oh, dear. Look at the time. Seems like it’s past time to go. Cheerio and out you go, sir. Thank you for coming. And yes, you too, ma’am. No… I don’t have any more copies of that book. It is a bit of a limited edition. … Limited edition does mean _limited_ as in _few._ Well, perhaps we can discuss it later. Thank you so much.”

One by one he ushered or cajoled his customers out the door until finally he could lock up. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing upward; then performing a minor miracle on the door so it wouldn’t admit anyone or any being willy-nilly. Unless they were particularly determined of course.

Oh, he was probably being paranoid, he thought, pulling down the shade and choosing not to notice the couple power walking in his direction who abruptly decided to volunteer at the homeless shelter instead. Their head offices would probably sweep the whole situation under the rug, just as Crowley said. But it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d taken a little Holy Water bath; and if Crowley had been the one to be there--! He shuddered to think.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, sweeping up the novel as he made his way back to his living space. His favorite old chair was still there, worn and comfortable even if it had been destroyed in a hellish blaze not a week or so before. He settled in, pouring himself the last of the Château Faizeau Montagne Saint-Emilion Bordeaux that he had bought in celebration of the…rejuvenated bookshop. It wasn’t a terribly old Bordeaux. Only 2014 or so. A baby, really. But it had seemed fitting giving the newness of everything. And he enjoyed the hints of black berry and the almost saucy cherry that came out to play on his palette.

After this he could comfortably return to his old favorites. His Royal Lochnagar single malt, twelve years old but with a simmering personality. And, of course, the Châteauneuf-de-Pape. 

But, each drink in its time. And he was always one to enjoy the drink at hand.

“You do quite serviceably,” he told the Bordeaux. “Thank you.”

Comforted a bit, throat warmed, he settled down to read. 

The clock ticked. Parceling out time in seconds, minutes, hours.

It was a new lease on life. A new way of being.

It was the first September the 3rd, Tuesday, in the rest of his life.

In the pages of the book, soft and buckled with moisture already as Aziraphale had picked it up second hand from a shop or two over, the winsome lass was trying not to notice Laird MacDonald’s crisp blue eyes or rippling pectorals as he chopped kindling so they wouldn’t die of frostbite in the rugged Scottish highlands. Which were overrated as far as he was concerned. It always amused him that humans were so keen to go to the great outdoors when they had spent most of their existence finding better ways to get in.

A glance up. Half a minute had passed. Seconds dripped by in endless procession, feeling far longer than they ought.

He should be enjoying himself. Living it up. Visiting old favorites and discovering new ones. Hunting down first editions. Maybe renewing his membership to the Horse and Pony Club. It had been a fun little place. Not quite as dignified as the Hundred Guineas, but had had a delightfully playful atmosphere-- before he war anyway. He wasn't quite looking forward to starting out as a pony again, and told himself sternly not to miracle himself up the hierarchy for pride’s sake. Just because his contact with heaven was-- well-- not quite as important as it had been previously, didn’t mean he could go wild with frivolous miracles.

And there was always the risk of Falling which would create a host of other problems, he was sure, and of the kind paperwork couldn’t solve.

A small, insipid tune began to play from the direction of his desk and Aziraphale couldn’t help but glare at The Phone. That slender blue and white thing that lay there that people these days had the audacity to call a Telephone. It was not. It was a constant annoyance and didn’t even work properly. Another… Another gift, he told himself, trying to think as sincere as he could; from Adam. Of course he could hardly expect a child of this day and age to understand the cherished feel of an old rotary, the elegant receiver, the way the dial sounded when spun-- the simplicity of, when you picked up the blessed thing, someone talked on the other end.

 _This_ phone seemed bent against understanding. Picking it up did nothing and after the irritating ring stopped, it merely flashed at him with insistent lights so he had to turn it over so as not to fling it across the room. He was sure Crowley could explain it to him, but he was also sure that the demon had plenty of better things to do, now freed, however temporarily, from the bonds of hell and, more importantly, the need to keep a status quo.

They were their own side now.

Whatever that meant.

Eventually the insipid tune stopped and he was able to return to his reading. The winsome lass was staring at the cleft chin of John MacDonald, Laird, bosom heaving with passion. She was going to hyperventilate at any moment he was sure.

He turned the page.

Read on. Or rather, read the same three sentences five times without retaining a thing.

Aziraphale sighed and set the book down, drumming his fingers on the cover.

He was being quite silly, he knew. He should enjoy his time! It should be a breath of fresh air! And yet…

Something was missing.

Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It was a feeling that had grown since -- well,coming home after that lovely lunch at the Ritz. It had been exhilarating, sitting there, giving into the temptation of sharing an absolutely delightful meal with Crowley and not much caring what either side had to think about it. And then the surprisingly slow ride home in the Bentley, listening to Vivaldi; where Crowley had even slowed down a little for a pedestrian throwing herself across the crosswalk. It had been very kind of him, though Aziraphale had decided not to bring it up. A touch on the demon’s leg had seemed sufficient enough praise, though he must have startled him, because then they’d nearly spun out into a lamp post which had given him a near heart attack and left Crowley growling a curse as only he could. Then, after they had made it back to the shop in one piece, they’d sat there a moment, engine idling.  Crowley had looked over at him, eyes inscrutable behind his dark glasses and said:

“Think about it, Angel. We can do whatever we want now.”

Aziraphale had said something along the lines of ‘yes’ and perhaps an ‘isn’t it wonderful?’ And maybe a ‘we should do this again soon’, before hurrying out of the car with some inexplicable feeling pinching at the base of his throat. And then, Aziraphale glanced heavenward, asking for patience for himself; Crowley had said: ‘I’ll call you!’ And Aziraphale had heard himself saying: ‘Yes, during business hours, please!’ Because his eyes had caught on his own sign and the words had spilled forth like rivers of idiocy from a great old fool.

That wasn’t all due to the idea of ‘doing what he wanted’, he had to admit. But it certainly was in its purview.

To the original question at hand, then. Why did it bother him so? This was freedom! He could do whatever it was he wanted without, for the moment, prying eyes or clicking tongues. Then again, when had he not done what he wanted the majority of the time? He glanced at his rounded stomach, the cozy loving shop; thought of the wine in the cellar; the thousand other little indulgences he’d gotten himself over the centuries. Oh, he was a hard worker! He wouldn’t beat himself up for that! But perhaps this was punishment for….what he did on the side. That since he _could_ enjoy what he wanted, there was no enjoyment in it.

Perhaps he could do with a more Spartan lifestyle. Perhaps even get trim!

But then he would be a trim angel with nothing to do with himself.

“I could use a little guidance, you know,” he murmured, not expecting anyone to hear or even an answer, though one would be awfully nice. Granted he hadn’t really ever sought advice, barring that one time in the 14th century. An angel didn’t need advice, he’d always supposed. All an angel had to do was follow the strict guidelines set down by his superiors and he was set. If needed, ask other angels for the how-tos, but certainly not the whys.

And if he had done _that_ , they would be right in the middle of a Holy War to end all Holy Wars with humans and this beautiful little planet caught in the middle. He couldn’t even really comfort himself that he’d done the right thing; because he hadn’t really done anything but muddle through. On the other hand that technically meant that he didn’t di-- disobey…

But he’d tried to and it was often the thought that counted.

Only, the problem then became, who was he really listening to? If Metatron didn’t know the Great Plan from the Ineffable Plan, who did? And what if he _had_ almost sort of managed to foul up God’s plan? And what if this _had_ been in God’s plan all along? What did that say about God?

Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Nor _should_ he think about it. It was not his to reason why.

“This is why you should’ve absolutely refused to get into it,” he murmured to himself. But did it matter? The end result likely would have been the same. Except now he was an angel without a particular allegiance and no particular order to follow. Not that he’d done terribly well as the millennia had gone by, even if he had done his best given the circumstances. He had  sown peace and harmony where he could, did as best as he could to bring about good will and love. Even if he _had_ done the odd temptation or two for Crowley, it wasn’t as if Crowley hadn’t done the odd good deed. At a much greater risk, no less.

And all that it seemed to have amounted to was an empty bookshop and a quietly ticking clock and the overall feeling of being a bit lost. But he was more of a shepherd rather than a sheep. No one rejoiced for his return or thought to look when he went astray. If one shepherd was gone, why, just send in another one. Perhaps he’d even lost the right to _talk_ to God. Though as time went on he couldn’t help but feel increasingly uncertain that she was actually listening.

“Your plan could do with being a little less ineffable,” he said, a murmur; almost daring for the warm light to shine on him, and the voice of distant thunder to descend upon him as it had so long ago.

There was nothing but the ticking clock.

The bookshop settled around him, old and new all at once. His corporeal body, also old and new all at once. All thanks to Adam, that strange child, now, hopefully normal-- who had carried the universe on his slender shoulders.

Did God design the Anti-Christ? Or did she just know it was coming? Was it all part of the scheme? Or is it something she worked in later when she found it couldn’t be avoided? Did any of the answers really matter?

“I suppose it is all for the best,” he told himself, though was believing it less than he used to; and now he felt morose. Dragged down. Pulled by the weight of the world that had never bothered him before.

“Oh, pull yourself together!” he told himself sternly. “You’re an angel! Not a human! You will figure this out! It’s time to shake off these storm clouds!”

And he knew just how to do it.

A few moments later, Aziraphale felt much better as he watched the heated water flow into the porcelain claw-footed bathtub in the center of the washroom, turning the air just the right sort of steamy. Indoor plumbing. What a blessing. The gentleman who had come to renovate at the turn of the last century had thought him mad for not wanting a toilet installed as well. But it was quite pleasant to have just a bath and to give a sympathetic smile and shrug to any humans who’d wandered into his shop needing somewhere to…relieve natural functions.

The tub itself, an absolute treasure! He couldn’t help but think as he set a little box of bonbons on the quaint little bath side table he had there for just such an occasion. It was big enough for him to stretch out in, and a little pillowy bolster could be attached at the other and for the times when he just wanted to completely indulge; which he fully intended to do tonight.

In only a few moments, he was lying on his stomach in the blissfully hot water, arms and cheek pillowed on the bolster. He turned off the tap with a toe before absently crossing his feet at the ankles and then, with the same budding anticipation of tasting a rare wine, he released his wings.

“Hmmm. Oh, _yes_.” It felt _good_ to have them out again; to be wholly himself. Perhaps that was all he’d needed in the end. He flared them lazily outward, stretching them to their limit, then rowed them in the air a little, feeling the steam roil against his feathers, and the subtle movements of the air currents through them. Then finally just let them drape in a low, lazy way, the tips of his feathers brushing the floor. What absolute bliss.

And there was more to come!

“Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy,” he murmured to himself, opening one eye. “For delivered to you on this day, a bonbon.” He popped it into his mouth and moaned again at the pure pleasure of taste, spreading across his tongue. The velvet of the chocolate, spiced lightly with cinnamon, _melting_ in his mouth with just a touch of buttery flavor, and then the delightful mellow tones of the pear ganache, light and frothy in his mouth.

 _“Heavenly._ ”

Though that wasn’t accurate in the least. Heaven, well heaven _these_ days, was  an operations center. Clean white lines everywhere. The only spot of color was Earth, rotating like a jewel in the white, as if it was the only planet that mattered. It didn’t use to be like that, Aziraphale thought, chasing the creamy pear absently around his mouth. He remembered still bursting into existence. Suddenly there was light. Suddenly there was him. It hadn’t been a sterile white either, like modern day; he thought, rolling his eyes; but a warm hazy glow that suffused everything. Color so vivid you could taste it. The air was filled with the exultant voices of the others, either astonished cries of joy at becoming; or being welcomed by those that had already become.

And God had been there too.

There and gloriously _present_.

Magnificent and beautiful and wise, she had sang and danced with them and they had watched while she created the universe with a terrific explosion of light and noise and color and pulse, taste and touch and countless other amazing things. And then, one day, for ineffable reasons that no one could guess, she had decided in her infinite wisdom, to create humanity.

And _that_ had caused a bit of a stir.

A stir which didn’t even _bear_ thinking about. That _horrible_ rebellion. Angel against angel. And, more dramatically. Angel against God. The cheek! He clicked his tongue. Of course he had fought with the others; and fiercely, too! He had lead more than one charge and done things he didn't care to dwell on now, though they had felt justified at the time. And they still were. Even if an awful lot of terrible things came from it. This was before humanity even got off the drawing table, so to speak. Not that the concept of humanity was the _only_ driving force of the rebellion or anything like that, but, goodness, the idea certainly hadn’t helped.

But had God known about that as well? Or had it been a shock to her as it had been to him?

He wasn’t sure which was worse, really.

And sometimes he wondered if she’d only been further disappointed after the disaster of Eden. Perhaps if he’d been a touch more vigilant, humanity wouldn’t have fallen as well. Perhaps then there wouldn’t have been a flood. And then her slow fading from them as if she was turning away to look at something else that was more interesting and obedient.

But that had happened millennia ago and there was no point in ruminating over it now! The plan was whatever the plan was and he had done his best to do what was right, for the most part-- so he deserved a bit of a respite from theological thinking!

He was so out of sorts, he was tempted to eat a bonbon as a sort of exclamation point to his determination, only those sweets were too good to be wasted on punctuation; so he merely turned his head to the other side, miracled the water a little hotter and tried to relax. To let his mind drift into sweeter memories and simpler times. The bath houses of Pompeii with Lucius Caecilius, before it became an unfortunate historical footnote… The scrumptious feasts of Versailles under the Sun King! Sipping cocoa in Tenochtitlán before human sacrifice had become so sadly popular.

A thousand indulgent little memories.

He peeked at one, then the other, reveling in the details he remembered; which was to say all of them. The feeling of heat, the tenderness of hot cocoa, the savory stuffed boar head, the delightful steam filled baths, listening to Caecilius talk about his ever growing art collection. He even dared to look at that one evening where he’d offered succor to dear Mary, who didn’t think her monster book would ever amount to anything. If only she’d known!

As he went however, he carefully avoided any memory where that shadowy, lanky figure abided. And there were so many. Some lasting mere moments. A meeting. A lunch. A weekend. A casual glance at an usual serpent sunning itself on the newly named rock. It just felt safer to avoid it. Far less confusing. After all, through no exact fault of his own, Crowley was at the center of his little existential crisis.  That was what you got for consorting with a devil.

Absolutely no piece of mind.

But that was for later, he thought, forcing even the vague guilt away. Right now he would pick something decent and fun. Perhaps that May Day festival where he’d gotten delightfully, but not indulgently, tipsy on berry wine and danced around the May Pole for most of the day. It had been a brilliant bright spring day, flowers freshly blossomed to the blue sky; and it had felt a little like Eden, he remembered. On a day that perfect, he had no idea what had brought Oscar out of hiding except for the substantial amounts of opium being sold quite illegally nearby that Aziraphale had hoped to try and put a stop to.  He remembered grabbing a particularly vivid purple ribbon and watching Oscar, who he hadn’t known at the time, watching him; a dark shadow against the green grass and it had struck him as very familiar; though no miasma of evil had curled around his form. Aziraphale had offered the length of ribbon, a bit cheekily, to him and those dark eyebrows had risen--

The Phone rang,  its  little ditty running through the bookshop and setting Aziraphale’s teeth on edge whenever he heard it. And he’d heard it _frequently_ in the past few days. It was completely off putting and was shattering the edges of this memory with every repetition of the tune. He was grateful to Adam for his shop back, he reminded himself.

But really, why that telephone?  With his old telephone, all he had to do was wave and it would fall silent. This one just rang incessantly until after some time of its own choosing, it decided to stop. Any wave of miraculous intent would only make it ring louder, and perhaps start buzzing too. He almost wished it would play Handel or Bach or even that be-bop of Crowley’s; though lord knew that had memories he didn’t want to touch yet. That one aside, putting such masterful tunes to electronic music seemed almost, well, blasphemous.

 After some interminable amount of time, The Phone stopped. Aziraphale snorted at it and shifted, unmelting the bonbons with a wave for later;  and he had just relaxed again when there was a knocking on the door, loud enough to rattle through the whole shop and back.

“Honestly!” He glared at the doorway to the washroom. Not that he could see the front door from here, and the shades were drawn anyway, but it was the principle of the thing! For people so eager to get into a bookshop, they certainly didn’t know how to read a closed sign! He miracled more sound proofing so he didn’t have to hear the blasted knocking-- and a few moments later, The Phone rang _again_ ; loud and cheerful as ever.

With a huff, he got out of the tub,miracling himself dry before shrugging himself into his bathrobe. He marched to the phone and snatched it up, giving the singing, buzzing thing a shake.

“I did not go through the Apocalypse just to be annoyed by you.” And then, in a fit of pique, marched back and threw it in the tub. Why not? His bath was ruined anyway. That done, he turned toward the kitchen because some things only tea would solve.

There was a small splash as The Phone hit water--

\--and then a much larger one.

“AUGHH! _WHAT THE HEAVEN?!_ _”_

Aziraphale blinked and turned, fighting down a smile as he saw a very wet and positively _livid_ demon in the process of crawling out of his tub. He was sloshing gobs of water on the floor as he did so, but looking so endearing in his rage it simply didn’t matter.

 _“_ Crowley.” He couldn’t help the smile now and indulged in it, folding his hands in front of him. “Decided to pop in for a bath?”

 _“_ Ha bloody _ha._ _”_ The last ha ended in a jerk as he caught his foot on the tub and stumbled forward. Aziraphale reached out to catch him on instinct, then let his hands fall back in front of him as  Crowley grabbed the doorway, catching himself. He watched the demon lean heavily against the wood with his forearm, chest heaving as much as the Winsome Lass. Aziraphale frowned at his expression as realization kicked in.

 “Is something wrong? Did something happen?” Lord please not let anything be happening. He wasn’t mentally ready for more things happening. He had thought it was well over.

“Apparently nothing’s wrong,” Crowley snarled. “Apparently you were just taking a sodding bath for _days_.”

“Hardly,”  Aziraphale said. “What _are_ you talking about?”  He could feel the weight of the demon’s glare, even through the dark glasses still streaked with water.

 “If you don’t want to talk to me, Angel, you could at least have the decency to _tell_ me.”

“Oh, please don’t exaggerate,” Aziraphale said, not quite able to meet his eyes. “It’s only been a few weeks.” They’d gone for _decades_ without seeing each other. Almost an entire century once. A few weeks were practically nothing. And it wasn’t as if he were _avoiding_ him per se. It was just… all a little..

“Right. Fine. Sure. Whatever.” Crowley sniffed and looked away, shoulders angled a bit like a dejected vulture. “I don’t care. You think I care? I don’t. This face? This is the face of absolutely not caring.”

“Crowley…”

“Good thing you weren’t secretly captured by your own bloody side to be roasted like a stuck pig because I would not. Give. A damn.” He had come closer as he spoke and they were practically nose to nose as he snarled the last line, teeth bared and tendons in his neck straining. Steam began to come off the demon’s clothes and water was dripping over the nice throw rug but Aziraphale hardly cared about that because he finally understood; a wave of guilt mixed with the warmest sentiment washing over him.

“You were worried…”

“ _Yees,_ I was worried!” he snapped. “Did you think I called you twenty-seven times in the past three days just for the hell of it? I even waited for your bloody business hours!”

“Oh, Crowley.” That was oddly very sweet. To actually do what he asked, even if he hadn’t precisely meant it, just because he’d asked. To be so worried for him. Well, with good reason. “I’m sorry, I just can’t get the hang of that blasted Phone.” _Blessed_ thing. “It just keeps ringing no matter how often I pick it up.”

“Sa--Go-- Someone help me,” Crowley muttered with a strange smile and a voice, oddly soft, yet still rough--”You have to press the green button, Angel. How you’ve lived on Earth this long and still have no idea.” As he spoke, he leaned forward, as if to rest their foreheads together; the anger seeming banked and affection rolling off him in a soft warm wave.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said too brightly with a chuckle and took a half step back, as casually as he could. “Should really get on that, shouldn’t I? Have to be on the up and up now that we’re…” What? Cut off? No. Certainly not abandoned. More like they were the abandoners, in a manner of speaking.

Now was not the time to think about it, especially as he saw the faint frown on the demon’s face, lasting only a second before he lifted his head and his expression smoothed; the affection smothered as if it had never been. He was always clever about that.

“Anyway, thank you for coming.” Was this it? Was he going to push him out the door like some unwelcome customer? “So sorry to have worried you.”

“Aziraphale, I didn’t mean--” but he stopped when Aziraphale held up a hand and thank…thank whomever for that because he could not handle that. Not Crowley saying his name, and certainly not like that. Honestly, had they changed so much? They had, in fact. Or were changing. And it unsettled the-- it unsettled everything in him.

“Well! Since you’re here, I can’t let you leave without a nice cup of cocoa.”

“What? Come onn,” Crowley groaned. “Cocoa? Really?”

“You’ll love it. Trust me. I found the recipe just for you _ages_ ago, but I’ve never had the chance to use it. Now--” He slipped a finger through the air to miracle Crowley’s clothes dry, accidentally giving him a dashing red ascot along the way.

“Really?” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows. “You hate me that much?”

“Oh, hush! It was a slip of the finger. Now sit. I’ll be right back.”

“Nah, I’d rather just--” he jerked his head toward the door. No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t allow Crowley to leave! Not on this note! Not when it was so strange between them and he hadn’t even  properly processed Crowley rushing to his perceived rescue. Well Crowley always had before. Or at least had always _been_ there right when he needed him. But this was different. He hadn’t needed him at all, and there he was. And then he was going and that just wasn’t going to do.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the chair, his favorite, which he knew Crowley knew. “It won’t take but a moment. You’ll be out again causing chaos in no  time.”

“Ugh, _fine_ , but stop being all--” he wiggled his fingers. “Weird about it. It’s making my skin crawl.”

“I do not make people’s skin _crawl_!” Aziraphale said, almost insulted. “I make it a point to be _immaculate_. It’s all about presentation, you know, and I resent the implication that--”

“Just get on with it, Angel, alright? It’s _fine_.” And Crowley slumped in the chair, sprawling everywhere and tugging at the ascot as if it were a noose. It was not fine. It was far from fine. But Aziraphale hurried with dignity, to the kitchen anyway and put the saucepan on the burner. He twisted the knob on the stove to light it because he never could get the hang of fire, before pouring what remained of the milk into it. It had gone by a little, but that was easy enough to fix.

The truth was, he _was_ being a bit odd and knew it. Could taste it from every word tumbling foolishly out of his mouth. But he couldn’t seem to stop it either.

It was just, perhaps, he thought, as he searched for the chocolate liqueur, that he was feeling a little unmoored right now. He had, after all, been moored for six millennia, straining the rope a little, but never slipping the knot completely, as it were. Now he was free. Now Crowley was free. Now there was nothing but the wide world and nothing whatever to stand between them and what did that even _mean_?

“What in _hell_ _’s_ name are you reading?” Crowley’s voice drifted over from the other room, sending his thoughts scattering a bit and he desperately tried to collect them.  Now this was just getting ridiculous, he told himself. He folded his wings against his back and straightened.

“Just a book I picked up from somewhere or the other,” he called back, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Feel free to peruse it, if you like. I’ve remembered my place.”

“ _Peruse_ it,” Crowley muttered, just on the edge of his hearing. Aziraphale shook his head and fetched down the chocolate liqueur. Only… it didn’t smell right. He uncapped the bottle. It smelled like…simple chocolate.

Oh… Oh no.

Carefully and with creeping dread he pulled out the Royal Lochnagar. Apple juice it smelled like, with perhaps a bit of caramel. And then, with as much a smile as he could muster, he went and fetched one of his last precious bottles of  Châteauneuf-de-Pape.

 Grape juice.

 Just.

 Grape juice.

 _Well_ he had his shop, didn’t he? His beloved home on this forsak-- _blessed_ planet. And most of his books. And alcohol was considered a sin by narrow minded self righteous humans who thought a good deed amounted to going to church, but would turn up their nose to some vagabond on the street.

No, he was being uncharitable.

It didn’t matter.

He could buy more.

It truly. Didn’t. Matter.

“Woo! What is going on in _there_?” Crowley said and Aziraphale had never wished to be alone more than at that moment.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said as pleasantly as he could. But already he could hear the devil slinking up behind him and tucked his wings in tighter, straightening his shoulders in resolve.

“That’s nothing and I’m Carlos Santana.”

“Friend of yours?” Aziraphale said a bit more tightly than he meant.

“You need to listen to better music,” Crowley said. “Seriously, I felt that through the _floorboards_. What’s --” And then he leaned forward, Aziraphale felt the brush of his chin against his shoulder. Crowley sniffed, and suddenly broke away, laughing. “ _Oh my God_.”

“ _Crowley_!” he snapped, turning on the demon who was currently leaning against the counter, laughing so hard he was clutching his stomach. Aziraphale felt his wings wanting to flare and kept them tightly locked.

“From wine into water, eh? No wonder you’re pissed off!”

“I am not pi-- I am _very grateful_ for Adam’s help-” he told the demon sternly. “This is just-- a mild-- inconvenience-- and a loss of-- Will you stop?!”

“Sorry, sorry” Crowley wheezed holding up a hand. Aziraphale glared at him as he calmed himself. Then flicked his wings in utter annoyance as the demon said: “Wait, no I’m not.” And burst out again. “The _look_ on your face! You should _see_ it! If you fall because of this I’m going to lose it.”

“Fall?”

“ _Ssshit_ ,” he heard Crowley say distantly as his mind was suddenly consumed. Could he fall because of this? This single ungrateful moment? All over alcohol? That was, after all, a vice and so many human lives have been lost to it? He _had_ indulged too much. That was the problem. That was it. The answer. Eaten too much. Bathed too much. Drank entirely too much.

And what if he fell? What then? Would he be forced into the hoards of hell? He didn’t want to be made to do evil! Maybe he didn’t do _much_ good in the end, but he really did prefer it! And here he was thinking ungrateful things and forcing poor humans out of his shop when they really just wanted the succor of books, and had gone against the great plan that perhaps was the ineffable plan and--

“Angel, Angel listen to me. Look at me.” Narrow fingered hands were on his cheeks and he found himself looking into Crowley’s citrine yellow eyes. “It was a _joke_. Angel, you’re not going to fall just because you’re pissed off about some wine.”

“But you _felt_ it. It was extraordinarily uncharitable of me.  And if I _have_ gone native, it’s a slippery slope…”

“You’re not going to be cast down just because--”

“But haven’t I been?” Aziraphale grips his wrists to pull his hands away, but gently. “Isn’t it what this is? Separation from God?”

“If it was just that then we’d all be fallen,” Crowley said, suddenly so achingly sincere. Was that…what it was? Were they all lost?

“I…” Aziraphale managed, but had nothing to fill it with, no words to spin across the emptiness.

“Fuuck,” Crowley said, moving away from him. “Fuckity fuck. Look, alright, _look_ at me.”

Aziraphale looked, somewhat astonished to see his wings out, filling the space with inky blackness.

“This is Fallen? Alright? The eyes, the sense of style , the wings black as shit--”

“I think they’re quite lovely,” Aziraphale found himself murmuring and then was almost appalled at himself, even if it was true. “For, you know, a…” he added automatically, but caught himself before he said ‘demon’.

“There, you see?” Crowley pointed at him. “You _know_   what I am. And you _know_ what you are.” Before he could protest, Crowley took him by the shoulders and turned him to face a mirror that had appeared, snakes worked in silver frozen in mid-writhe around the frame.

“I am a mess,” Aziraphale said gloomily. Here he was standing in just a bathrobe, half worked off his shoulder by now, wings locked behind him. Whatever kind of angel he was--

“Nothing new there,” Crowley said with a light smirk and Aziraphale didn’t even have it in him to be offended by that. Though he did feel a bit terrible as the demon sighed, ruffling his feathers and the fine hairs at the back of his neck with his breath.

“I mean it. Not the mess. But there’s nothing new. Ever since I’ve known you, you've always looked just a little like this. Same hair, same eyes… your wings are, frankly, blinding. I can’t even touch them.” And even as he said that, he did. Aziraphale couldn’t help but tense a little at the sensation which shivered through him, entirely too intimate, brief though it was.

“Look,” Crowley said bringing his hand in  front of them. There were white burns along his fingers.

“Oh, let me…!”

“Nah,” Crowley said, taking his hand away before Aziraphale could even catch it. “The point is, whatever your head office has to say, and trust me they’re the biggest bunch of dicks I’ve ever seen--”

Well, he couldn’t quite deny that.

“--You’re still an angel, and you’ll continue to be one because falling is a _choice_. Do you think any demon said: ‘Bugger, didn’t mean to do that. Well, time to be evil, I guess.’ No.”  He met Aziraphale’s eyes in the mirror and it was strange how close it felt, indirect as it was. “We walk backwards into hell, giving a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone and everything upstairs.”

It did make him feel a bit better, he had to admit. He folded his hands in front of himself, regarding himself in the mirror -- mostly because he felt he ought. To see himself as he truly was at the moment. Then he spread his wings a little, trying his best not to touch the demon behind him, watching their radiance in the reflection even as the mirror began to crack. It soothed him even more. Enough so that he began to feel a bit silly to have gone on such a tear to begin with. He was soft, but surely he wasn’t _that_ soft.

“I do apologize,” he said, moving away and dressing himself with a downward pinch of the fingers because honestly enough was enough. He banished his wings in the same instant and hoped Crowley did the same with the mirror. “I don’t know what is wrong with me. It feels like everything’s changed-- even if it hasn’t.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Crowley said. “And then everything will be back to normal.”

“Normal…” Aziraphale echoed. “I can only hope.” Normal was nice. He enjoyed normal. If he could find even that, then so many other things would be-- well, a little easier to think about.

“In the meantime.” Crowley set the bottle of chocolate liqueur on the counter and, Aziraphale closed his eyes, it actually smelled as it ought. “My cocoa?”

“I’ll get right to it,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley saunter back toward the sitting room.

“Good, while you do that, I’ll go back to the quivering lance of Laird John MacDonald,” he said in a Scots accent so egregious that Aziraphale had to smile.

“I thought you didn’t care for books.”

“I don’t.” There was the slight squeak of leather as he sat back in the chair. “But it’ll be worth reading to torment you about it later.”

“I doubt you’ll find much to torment me with,” said Aziraphale, pulling the milk off the burner. “Aside from historical inaccuracies. It’s quite the wrong time period for lances of any sort.” Maybe bayonets, he supposed.

“Ohh you’re going to _hate_ yourself when I do the voices.”

Aziraphale shook his head, catching his reflection briefly in the watery darkness of the night against the window. He looked just the same as he ever did. He still felt completely unbalanced… but at least, well, at least he wasn’t in this _completely_ by himself. And that , for now, was good enough.


	2. Tuesday Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has 99 problems and Aziraphale is most of them. He's supposed to be free now. Able to do whatever he wants. And he's perfectly fine with himself, and humanity, and the whole sodding thing. After all, they can only have one existential crisis at a time.

 Crowley sprawled on his throne, one foot propped on the table, as he watched the Earth tear itself to pieces out of the corner of his eye. The TV flipped through the channels on its own. Mostly. Giving him the highlights of the week. War, massacre, famine brought on by pollution, pollution brought on by idiots, violence, death, anti-vaxxers-- It was disgusting really. Here he and Aziraphale had spent eleven bloody years fretting over the wrong child, and the world was going to hell in a hand basket anyway.

The bitch of the thing was, most of the horror of humanity was them doing it to _themselves_. He barely had to lift a finger in six millennia, except to write out the occasional memo. And in the meantime had been able to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Maybe if he’d worked a little harder, he wouldn’t have been stuck with the Anti-Christ.

But that had worked out, more or less.

Now just had to sit back and watch these bastards off themselves for the next however long. Yeah, fine, there were good things too, he thought, flicking the taste of the word out of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. _Kindness_ and _hospitality_ and _charity_ \-- all the _decent_ things humans did to each other, that made that Angel smile and say ‘oh’ in his pleased, posh way. As for the humans themselves, even if the good deed _was_ due to some innate “kindness”, it would be forgotten the moment they were rear-ended on the freeway.

Humans…

Not that he actually _hated_ them or anything. They were usually pretty fun, not to mention funny. Some good. Some bad. Most a little mix of both. It was usually unpredictable what they’d do next. Lot of fun really. And so _easy_ , usually. Until they weren’t. Sometimes it took him a bit of song and dance to get them to do what he wanted. Other times, just a whisper; just a purr, and they were dancing in the palm of his hand. Course they could dance right back and into the palm of good just as easily; which was why he generally preferred to tarnish a great lot of human souls at once rather than mucking about individually. Saved a lot of time that way.

Now he could just do it for _fun_ if he wanted. He could do _whatever_ he wanted. They could do whatever they wanted.

It had seemed a bloody good idea at the time to say it. He’d thought it was alright then. That they had something going. The world was not ending, somewhat thanks to them, tangentially. They’d had dinner at the Ritz-- Aziraphale had been happily chatting about the food all the way back, seeming content and the world lay at their feet.

And then he’d had to open his big mouth and say they could do anything they wanted. And then he’d stuck his foot in it saying he’d call him. And Aziraphale had said: ‘only during business hours.’

Crowley repeated the words silently, feeling faintly disgusted by it all.

He’d even _called_ during business hours too. That was the worst bloody thing. No, the _worst_ bloody thing was when he’d panicked when he couldn’t get in the shop and hoped to whomever that Aziraphale had his mobile on him when he went through it.

He _never_ wanted to feel that panic again. He thought he’d already _been_ finished with feeling that panic.

“You care too bloody much, that’s the problem,” he muttered between his teeth.

“Tragic news in Brighton today,” the news anchor was saying. “As a lorry driver ran over--”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley muttered, snapping the TV off.

He slung himself up and sauntered over to the fish tank, his insides curling as he did so. 60 gallons of holy water, bought-- well “bought” off Amazon for 11 quid a bottle; a tank of terrifying insurance. He wasn’t entirely sure the effectiveness of the holy water, and wasn’t about to test it out himself; but he figured it at least looked impressive, and if anyone came by and tried to call his bluff-- he hoped they at least got a wicked burn while he made tracks out the door.

Only he couldn’t make tracks, he thought, tapping at the glass so that the fish glared at him. If he ran, they’d know he was scared; and if they knew he was scared, he was _fucked_. Both he and the angel were _fucked_ actually, and not in the fun way. No quivering lances in their future. So he had the fish tank and other bottles of holy water in plant spritzers around the flat. Between that and the huge sodding crucifixes he had hanging here and there, he’d at least make any demon think twice before coming up; unless they were _really_ desperate.

Pity you couldn’t do the same thing for Angels. Pernicious bastards. They were the worst ones. The ones you didn’t see coming. They were the ones that smiled and blessed and healed and treated unto others and all that rot. But to them? It was all a job. All part of keeping the status quo of Heaven and Hell. They didn’t actually _care_ about people

It was like that with demons too, of course, but demons were _supposed_ to be assholes. You always expected extinction as a demon, and if you didn’t, you were already extinct. Angels were supposed to be _better._

Some were

One was.

At least better about it than _they_ were.

Crowley suddenly wanted to call him. Had to fight the impulse to drag his mobile from his pocket and dial him up. He wanted to hear him whittering away about something or the other, or complain to him about the world being an absolute rubbish fire and hear him defend it, or even hear him agree. Or maybe torment him with the snippets he could remember of that stupid book he’d been reading. That had been fun. Every humiliating line had been worth it to see Aziraphale squirm and click his tongue and call him a liar, then to see the red flush as he’d taken the book and realized it was all there in black and white.

Yeah…. He should call him and--

\-- and look like a clingier idiot than when he’d called him last week. Twenty-seven bloody times. And despite them being able to do whatever they bloody wanted, there were some things Aziraphale clearly didn’t want-- And _he_ didn’t want them either. Or, well he _did_ , but he didn’t _need_ them.

“Perfectly fine without you,” he muttered, snatching a spritzer. “Could go _decades_ without seeing you again. Because I,” he said again with more confidence. “Am through with being an idiot.”

Because for one thing, it would never work. For another, it would _really_ never work. And for a third he was supposed to _hate_ him. He was supposed to loathe Aziraphale’s very existence, not go out of his way to save his stupid ass every ten minutes. He was supposed to try his best to be unthwartable, not fairly beg Aziraphale to continue thwarting him. Not to rescue his books or his liquor or walk around looking like him down to the stupid bowtie.

And yet…

It was just to bloody easy to be friends with him. He was hilarious and somewhat… somewhat… alright… somewhat _adorable_ with his vices, and his worries were genuine ones and they could-- talk. Actually talk. Not just insinuate evil plans in low tones, or banter. It could be a game sometimes, but it didn’t have to be that, and there had been more than one evening where they’d just sat together somewhere and existed.

A sudden brittle streak of pain ran down his knuckles and there was a low hiss as his skin began to bubble.

“Ah! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He dropped the fucking holy water spritzer, dancing back from the mess it made as it burst all over the floor and scrambled over to wipe his hand on the heavy leather apron he _should_ have been wearing. Not to mention _gloves_.

Crowley hissed between his teeth, flexing his fingers and glaring at his reddening knuckles. The pain had already started to subside, but the cold horror crawling under his skin hadn’t. At least he knew the shit worked, but this…this… _feeling_ had officially gone from stupid to stupidly suicidal. He was damn lucky that this was the cheap shit. If that had been the stuff he’d gotten from Aziraphale, he’d be extremely fucking dead right now.

“Right.” He shook out his hand. He needed a distraction. To get back to routine. To do something that he was _good_ at. “Time to cause some trouble.”

 

>>>>>><<<<<< 

           

Crowley sat in the crowded theater, listlessly watching one group of actors in stupidly bright costumes pretend to fight another group of actors in bright costumes. It was the new _in_ thing, these ‘superhero’ movies. It was an import straight from the from the States where, if you couldn’t punch someone to end an argument; it was hardly worth starting. It was all completely ridiculous, he thought sourly, bouncing a kernel of triple buttered popcorn with pinpoint accuracy off the shiny bald pate of a man sitting six rows down.

 The man wiped at his head with impatient fingers, but not much more than that. Crowley couldn’t help but be grudgingly impressed. Seventeen bounces and there’d hardly been a change in blood pressure. Normally he’d leave the guy alone after that. He could appreciate resistance. There was a certain sanctimonious deviousness to it that was all too familiar. But tonight he was feeling petty and bounced kernels eighteen and nineteen off of his head in quick succession.

  
The heaven of it was, he’d hadn’t even had a bad time of it. In fact, he’d had a sodding great time considering it was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were usually the hardest time to cause chaos. Most people were so numb from Monday’s casual evil that anything happening on Tuesday was just another drop in the bucket. But so far, in the past eight hours: he’d crashed the card readers in two major grocery chains twice, sent a bunch of rowdy Americans searching for an ‘authentic experience’ to a little out of the way pub so English they’d apologize for getting shot, tied up a McDonalds’ drive-thru for thirty minutes with a complex order and then driven off without paying, and finally caused a three hour traffic jam near Chiswick Roundabout at rush hour.

Even now, he was about ten minutes from meeting an MP who wanted to finalize the plans for an embezzlement scheme that, if it was discovered, the party would either have to cover it up so thoroughly that the MP would have to retire to Wales for his own safety, or sack about a quarter of their members. It had been a glorious plan. Absolutely brilliant. One of his best actually and he’d barely had to lift a finger.

It had all started five or so years ago when he and Aziraphale were still looking after Warlock. It had been ridiculously easy. He’d just encouraged the idea already buzzing about the then aide’s ear, and had crossed and uncrossed his legs a lot, showing some stocking in the process. A few buzzes and years later, with some time off for trying to avert the end of the world, the plan was ready to come to fruition.

And who bloody cared if it did?

Back then, Crowley had _dreamed_ of the memo he could write about this bloody thing. It would have been enough to keep hell off his back for _decades._ Only now he was completely hell-free until either side decided to destroy him. No one was caring. No one was keeping score. There was no purpose. Not that Crowley had ever really cared about purpose. It was usually just something to do and helped keep him from punishment, torture and shit-tier jobs like being literally chained to a filing cabinet. He shivered at the thought.

But now, it was just-- what? Dicking around? The pleasure of a bad job well done? It wasn’t enough. Even _this_ job he was doing because he hated loose ends. But then it would be over and he would feel as empty as he had for weeks now. Crowley scowled to himself, tossing a handful of kernels down on the man who finally broke. The man twisted in his seat and shouted:

“Oi!”

“Shut up,” Crowley snapped. “Some of us are trying to watch the movie!”

The man turned back around, anger and humiliation roiling off him. It had been a cheap trick. A rough and dirty tarnish and Crowley didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way it tasted or the way it made him feel. He was above that shit. Not that he was going to apologize or anything.

With a grunt, he sat back and kneed the seat of the person in front of him as he set the popcorn bucket on the sticky floor, it not even being in him to casually spill it behind the seat. What was the point? Even the arrangement was fucked, he realized gloomily. The only reason he and Aziraphale had started that was to give themselves space to be free doing other things. Living their lives. Now it was pointless. They could do what they wanted and so who the hell cared what they did?

Only he would do it, he told himself. He would keep doing what he always did. Firstly, because what the hell else would he do, and secondly, because they could only handle one existential crisis at a time.

 It had been a bit terrifying seeing Aziraphale fall apart like that. For a moment he’d looked so lost Crowley would have done just about anything to change it. Thank something that he’d managed to cheer him up a little. Emotional support was nowhere near his wheelhouse, so it had been a relief when Aziraphale’s expression lightened and he’d spread his wings a little.

Wings glorious blazing white. The entire room had seemed to fill with light.

Crowley absently licked the faint white lines on his fingers. Even a brief touch of the angel’s radiant white feathers had sent holy fire singeing through his veins. It was almost gone now, but he could still taste the peppery tingle. Much better than the holy water burn which still smarted a little whenever he moved his hand wrong. And _much_ more dangerous in a thousand little ways.

_God,_ why did he have to be so _bloody_ stupid about it?

His watched beeped, shrill in the otherwise silence as someone or the other had a dramatic on-screen death. A few people cleared their throats meaningfully. Crowley ignored them for the moment, looking at the time. The MP would be downstairs waiting for him.

 For a moment he considered not going. To say sod the whole thing and stick around just long enough to spoil the ending for whoever hadn’t seen the movie yet. He flicked the button on his watch and the beeping stopped. He tried to settle in, legs spread and caged against the seat in front of him, staring at the screen. He had just about resolved himself to this when the character on screen muttered their last words, and someone behind him stifled a sob.

It pissed him off in a way he couldn’t explain. This was a play. They were actors. No one really cared about actors; but kill a favorite character and humans _mourned_ them like they were real. They deserved what they got, he thought, irritation in him mounting even as he stood and made his way from the center of the packed row to the outside, not caring who was in his way. A man said “hey!” and a woman ended up spilling her drink all over her seatmate; but they deserved it. Humans deserved to get messed with just to get some sense of fucking perspective.

Hands in pockets, he slunk down the stairs and remembered right before going out the door that the MP was expecting Nanny Ashtoreth.

Bugger.

It wasn’t hard. Crowley remembered everything usually, down to the last detail, and he’d spent eleven or so years as her. He could be Ashtoreth in his sleep; but it felt like just so much of a pain in the ass. To get back into her, how she acted, how she moved. All for a temptation that made no bloody difference.

So, fuck it.  
Crowley strode out, just as he was.

It didn’t take long to find the MP, being furtive beside the cut-out poster of some children’s adventure movie. He had changed a bit in five years. His hair had thinned out but he’d definitely gone up a trouser size, and judging by the expensive watch that flashed on his wrist whenever he nervously moved his hands; from his pockets to in front of him to back again, he had gotten a lot richer since Crowley had seen him last.

That was always a good sign for him, the juicer apple, the easier target. The rich were easy to seduce. Most of the time all that was required was being there and listening to them talk themselves into it, spinning out justifications like spider silk. He sauntered up to the man whose eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again and said:

“Let’s go get this over with.”

“You… must have mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid,” but even as the MP spoke, he looked like he doubted himself. Crowley rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

“I’ll give these plans to someone else then.” He pivoted and turned toward the revolving door, something like freedom just beyond them in the night.

“Wait,” the MP hissed, scrambling up behind him. Crowley managed to turn just before the human could grab him and gave him a glance over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows.

“Thank you for telling me about my car,” the MP said, a bit too loudly. “Certainly we’ll have to take a look at it.”

And he strode ahead toward the doors like he was the one in charge of this situation. Crowley shook his head. With acting like that, this scheme was going nowhere fast. ‘Course even if hell was keeping track, it wouldn’t’ve mattered if the scheme had succeeded or not. It wasn’t win or lose but how you fucked everyone over playing the game.

Outside was cool and damp and Crowley followed the MP to the wall of the theater where the man tucked himself in an alcove and lit a cigarette, still squinting at him as if unsure.

“So, you must be-- Miss Ashtoreth’s brother then?” said the MP. Crowley said nothing, raised his eyebrows, rocked on his heels; watched as the man’s suspicion and fear and desperation twisted over his face. He could _smell_ it in the air like stale sweat. This was going to be so easy. Too easy. Such a bloody brilliant plan to be wasted on… nothing.

“Nephew? Cousin?” the MP continued, then with a more significant pause. “…Son?” There was disappointment in his voice, as if he still wanted to meet Ashtoreth in a dark closet somewhere and pick up where he wished they’d left off. The thought made Crowley want to shudder.

“Do you want the plans or not?” Crowley said, digging the papers out of his pocket and waving them back and forth. The MP watched them like a cat presented with dangling keys.

“I need some reassurances, you understand,” the MP said. “Some sort of security.”

“I can securely throw them in the gutter,” said Crowley. And if he did the MP would go scrambling to pick them up, he thought sourly, expensive watch or not. The MP scowled at him. Crowley made a move as if to throw them in the street and smirked a bit, amused and annoyed, as the MP jerked his hands out as if to catch them.

“Give them to me then,” the MP snapped, and Crowley handed them over; watching as the man shuffled through them, sweat beading his forehead.

“These…these are brilliant,” the MP gasped. “This could actually work. I had my doubts about it from the beginning but-- using this framework to set everything in place…”

Crowley wondered how the MP would react if he knew that he’d got all of it off the net. It was an odd mix of twitter, reddit, and a site with a list of oddly accurate secret government. conspiracies He almost wanted to tell the MP this. To prick his swelled ego like a balloon and watch him deflate with a sad farting noise. Instead he just said, flatly:

“Who’d be able to stop you.”

The MP glared at him.

“No one _would_ ,” he snapped. “People will believe anything with the right PR.”

That was true and it made him oddly angry. It didn’t even take that much. Slap a famous actress on the face of used motor oil, say it caused weight loss, and you would have people siphoning it out of their cars. Have a handsome MP waving and smiling at people, acting just like they expected, and no one believed he treated his family like shit. Even just being a good orator meant you could talk your way into and out of anything. Once Crowley had figured that out, so fucking long ago, it had been like waving candy in front of a baby.

“You sure it’s the right thing to do?” said Crowley, his skin crawling even as he said it and he had to force himself to keep an even tone. It didn’t _matter_ if it sounded like he meant to do good. He was already in the worst books you could get as far as hell was concerned. They didn’t need an excuse to grab him and inflict unending torture on him.

“Good? Don’t come to me with that naivety.” The MP sniffed. “You should talk to your Nanny. She knew the truth of it. And it isn’t as if anyone is going to get hurt. It’s _just_ money changing hands, which ultimately helps the economy, you know. Trickle down whatsits…

Even if it didn’t, you wouldn’t believe the pressures I’m under. Can’t even get a buggering flat in this city and have to drive _twenty_ minutes just to come to work every morning. Today I missed a vital meeting because I was stuck on bloody Chiswick.

And it’s not as if this plan is going to last longer than it takes to give me a substantial retirement so I can take care of my family and that bloody holiday home in Costa del Sol.” As he rambled, the man stroked a little horseshoe pin in his lapel, as if for good luck. “And the best part is.” The man smirked. “Even if it all goes pear shaped, you can tell your Nanny that none of it will come back on us.”

“No?” Crowley said, wondering what the hell he was planning.

“No. I’ve found the perfect little idiot to do the..er…cooking as it were.” The smirk crawled across his face like a living thing. “They won’t even know they’re doing it.”

He wanted to ask him why money mattered so bloody much he was willing to fuck over a great number of his own kind to get it; even people who had supported him. Why he thought he deserved _anything_ but a good swift kick in the balls.

Only it didn’t matter what he deserved. He might get justice on Earth, but he’d be offered mercy from Heaven if he just reached out his hand and asked for it. He could be _forgiven._ Didn’t matter what he did to anyone else. The man could literally cut bloody swaths through his own kind, down to the most fragile and innocent, but could turn over a new leaf and be forgiven; just like that.

Heat flicked through Crowley at the thought, like sparks flying off his bones. He fought the urge to do something to him. Something painful. Something they’d both regret.

“And,” the MP said, his eyes narrowing, voice low. “If you tell anyone of our little arrangement.”

“Sod off,” Crowley said, turning instead on his heel and stalking down the busy pavement. It was crowded outside of the theater. Humans peeled away from him; giving him wary looks. A mother hurried her child into a shop. An old man trembled as he passed. The fire charged through him in every step as he watched their scared little faces. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck the lot of them.

He walked and watched them, going in and out of shops, irritated at prices, at traffic, at each other, at the state of the world which inconvenienced them in particular. He walked and tried to fight the fire growing in him at every step. Fought the urge to burn something. To corrupt something. To do something quick and sharp and violent.

“Let go of me, Charlie!” the woman’s words came out of a nearby alley, the fear in them giving them a sharp clarity that drew his attention like a moth to a flame. “I said, let go!” She was stumbling after a large man, her pointed heels dragging across the pavement as she struggled to hold back, to get free. The man laughed 

Something snapped. The sparks of fire turned into a roar as loathing curled through him so thick, it was almost choking. Even his blood was flame, searing through his veins with every step he took down the alley. The man smirked at him, letting the woman go with a shove that made her stumble to her knee, the sharp bite of blood rising in the air.

“You gotta problem, mate?”

It felt good to twist his hand in the human’s shirt and slam him against the wall so hard his head knocked back against the brick. Good to lift him up like the little rag doll he was; no effort needed. _Really_ good to deliver his own brand of justice since no one else in heaven or hell gave a single _shit_.

“You think I tried to stop fucking Armageddon for this?” Crowley snarled through his teeth. “So that you pathetic bastards could continue to fuck each other over? To throw your weight around like you think you mean something to someone?” He leaned in close, nose to nose, breathing in the scent of fear and pain that rose into the night air. “Well let me tell you something. You mean _nothing_. You are _nothing_. God has left the building and you are nothing but a shit stain on the angels’ heels.”

And who cared about a shit stain? Smoke began to curl through the air from his fist. The anger was starting to turn to pleasure, something sick and twisted and _easy._ A pleasure and freedom he hadn’t felt in a long fucking while. If he burned this ape alive, who would know?

Who would care?

And somehow he knew that watching this human writhe and scream would feel so _fucking_ wonderful.

He grinned as the man scrabbled against his wrist, let his sunglasses slide down his nose, felt the darkness in him _rise_.

His mobile rang then. ‘Moonlight Sonata’ curling softly through the air in beautiful, somber tones.

Aziraphale.

He came back to himself. The woman was tugging at him saying:

“Please, please, he didn’t mean it.”

He saw the man crying great stupid tears as he struggled to get free.

Crowley let him go, let him drop right where he was and hurried out of the alley, hands shaking. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Fuck shit fuck damn what the hell was that? He could not _do_ that. He could not _be_ that.

 Moonlight Sonata played on, soothing and insistent all at once. He couldn’t talk to the angel like this. He had to take a moment. Catch his breath. Find somewhere to sit. Maybe call him back when he had some grip on whatever the hell had been going on.

The Bentley was too far for his shaking legs, or nerves, to carry him, so feeling like an idiot he crept into a narrower, filthier alleyway behind some rubbish bins. A sleeping bag was tucked to one side against a brick wall along with a chipped mug, but whoever usually stayed here was gone for the moment. Crowley sat against the other corner, resting his arms on his raised knees, taking slow breaths until it felt as the fire in his blood had reduced to embers.

He took another deep breath to calm any tremble that might be in his voice and pulled out his mobile.

The ringing stopped. The lock screen displayed that ‘Angel’ had called, and then went dark. And then everything felt dark. As if all the lights had gone out. Even in the streets. Even in the sky. He suddenly felt so alone here in the broken alley. As if he was the only one that existed.

 Crowley closed his eyes, fighting down the deep drowning feeling that welled in him now that the fire had gone. A black tide.

Moonlight Sonata began again, the lock screen filling the alley with a soft blue light. He didn’t deserve it. He knew he didn’t. Not a demon like him. But he kissed the phone anyway, grateful to-- whomever, and cleared his throat as he answered it.

“Yeah?”

“There you are,” said the angel, his voice pouring into his ear like warm honey, like fingers reaching in and stroking his insides, pushing the tide down and down. He couldn’t help but lean his head against the wall and cuddle the fucking mobile against his ear, taking a deep shuddering breath.

“You know I was getting a bit worried,” the angel continued.

“I’m not glued to my phone waiting for you to call,” Crowley grumbled, partly to get him to not worry _as_ much. Nothing to worry about here. “I have things to do.”

“I know,” said the angel, then in a different tone, still cheerful but with a touch of beautiful sadness in it: “Suppose it’s a bit silly of me really. Never mind. This seems like a bad time. I’ll just--”

“Talk to me, Angel,” he said, thumping the back of his head against the brick. _Don_ _’t leave me._ The words whispered in his mind, and he hated they were there. Hated that he meant them so much. This wasn’t just a call to chat, he told himself. Oh, they had met just to chat more than once, but the angel disliked using the phone too much to just want to sit there and talk to him. He must want something.

Only Crowley didn’t want to know what it was yet. He wanted the illusion of concern to last a little while longer.

“How was your day,” he said, as the angel started:

“Well, I only wanted to-- What? Oh. My day was _beastly_. I don’t know how humans do it, I truly don’t. I’ve had the shop open for five hours like clockwork every day. Five hours Crowley. _Every day_. Mr. Parcels down the street is saying I’m starting to make him look bad, but he only opens his shop for two hours after teatime and it’s by appointment only. He doesn’t even _have_ first editions except for the little chapbook of Byron’s I gave him as sort of a settling in present, and I know that he keeps _that_ in a safety deposit box. I ask you. It’s quite a rare thing, but at _least_ have it out where it can be perused now and again.”

“The nerve,” Crowley said, fondness seeping warm through him.

“The absolute nerve,” said Aziraphale. “And then I went to the Thorn and Rose, a charming little pub I found, tucked away. It’s quite new for me. I went to rub elbows with the other wage laborers such as myself.”

There was nothing whatever laboring about Aziraphale’s work, Crowley thought, but kept that to himself.

“And they have a _delightful_ steak and kidney pie. Only I’d barely taken a _bite_ out of it when the entire place was _flooded_ with Americans! I mean they are what they are but were incredibly loud; and one man kept laughing and asking for the poor bartender to play ‘honky tonk.’”

  
Crowley closed his eyes, thudding his head against the wall again. Of fucking course, that had happened. He wouldn’t apologize for it. How could he? He sort of wanted to, though. They were different people now, weren’t they? They could do anything they wanted, couldn’t they? He could say he was sorry and not have to worry about who overhead.  Not that it would do any good since it was over and done with. The most it would do was maybe get the angel annoyed, he thought, skipping a bit of grit against a rubbish bin just to hear it ring.

“Also, well, I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Aziraphale continued. “About things going back to normal. The shop keeps me busy, but that’s hardly normal is it? At least not for me. I hardly have any peace of mind. That is more because I feel it’s good for me, don’t you think? Attachment leads to suffering, they say.”

_Yeah, tell me about it,_ he thought, skipping another bit of grit. He grunted instead of answering, so the angel knew he’d at least heard.

“I was considering getting back into some old hobbies. Trying to make some friends of a certain bent. Like when I was at the Hundred Guineas Club. It’s defunct now, sad to say. It was rather a den of iniquity, true; but everyone was _so_ pleasant and I had _such_ a good time.”

“Is that the one where you told the police to sod off?”

“Not in so many words, but yes. And pity it only worked once. I was lucky I didn’t receive a citation for it; but I find the whole situation absolutely appalling. Why are humans so _determined_ to control everything? Even love? I do admit, there was an alarming amount of prostitution and it certainly wasn’t perfect, but they could have left well enough alone-- it was only ever about one thing after all. All in the name of God.” He clicked his tongue again. God didn’t even care, about this or that or any of them.

“Bastards,” Crowley muttered, feeling the low simmer of anger again.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed, a touch of steel in his voice that ran pleasantly down Crowley’s spine. He straightened a little against the brick and tried to forget it.

“Either way, it’s gone now.  Most clubs of that ilk are. At least in the way that I liked them. Only the Horse and Pony Club is still around, which is a bit shocking.”

“The _what_?” Crowley said, the name searing into his brain and making him cringe at the thousand little implications that had. “I don’t know how you do it. How you-- go to these places with names like _that_. Horse and Pony Club. It’s all so-- so-- It’s worse than your magic act, I’ll tell you that. I’d rather watch you kill a hundred doves--”

“That wasn’t on _purpose_. I was a bit distracted by, well, everything!”

“--than go near a place like that.”

“No one is saying you have to,” Aziraphale said. “I know it’s not your style and not your sort of fun. Even though I quite enjoy it. And the name of the place is all a bit of the fun. A bit tongue in cheek.  They’re a _very_ theatrical sort of group. I was there, you know, when it was founded in…1937. Yes. They were just a giddy bunch of boys back then. Oh, some older gentlemen to help give a guiding hand, of course--”

“Of course,” Crowley repeated, just to poke him a little.

“But the boys ran the show for the most part,” Aziraphale said as if he hadn’t noticed. “They wanted to play at being Edwardian, just for the fun of it. To escape to a simpler world. Well what they thought was simple anyway.” He sighed. “And then those boys went to war. Most…never came back. We used to have somber little going away parties, but then it just--became too much when there were so few of us…”

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said. It was amazing that nothing that he could think up was as bad as humanity did to itself. Okay, well the M25 had proved a bit of a disaster in the end and could have been _really_ bad; but everything else felt so much worse.

“This is precisely why we’re not meant to get attached. Humans our are charges, not our friends. We don’t have friends.” He said it like he was quoting someone. Gabriel, probably. Bastard, Crowley thought. He would have liked to have knocked his teeth out.

“Anyway, the club has changed a bit. They’ve got some ridiculous standards now.  You have to apply. Write some kind of essay of why you deserve to get in, it feels like. Very exclusive. I did apply and was accepted… and even invited to a little soiree this weekend. But after all that work, I’m not sure I’ll go… It does seem great fun, but I just don’t know how to _talk_ to young men these days. I had to become rather isolated since the seventies, I’m afraid, and never really got back out of it. And…” Another sigh. “They strongly suggest bringing a plus one. I’m _sure_ it’s to get more people interested in the Club, but I have absolutely no one to bring.”

Fuuuuck. Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, great --sodding--cow brains of bloody--fucking _hell_. Crowley kicked the wall but didn’t feel much better. The angel wasn’t even asking him, not even trying to guilt him into it. Why couldn’t he have sodding asked him? Crowley could have hated it more. Could have been reluctantly dragged along to the sodding Horse and bloody Pony club rather than having to be the one to say:

“There’s me.”

Like some pathetic wanker.

And he hated the words as he said them. Hated the words as they fell into the air.  Hated himself for saying them just to try and make the angel happy. It was so needy, so open, like his ribs had been pried apart and here he was, sitting on the ground behind some rubbish bins like some great hopeful bastard, heart on display and practically begging for the angel to come rip it out like he knew he would. He _knew_.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said in the warm gentle tones of: ‘poor little thing’ which just made him want to hiss. “Thank you, but you’d hate it. And I couldn’t do that to you after everything. Not for some silly little club.”

He couldn’t say: ‘I’m doing it to me’. He couldn’t ask him. Couldn’t beg him. Couldn’t say that would follow him down the fucking glitter lined primrose path into rainbow unicorn Pony Club hell if he so much gave the word, just to be with him. To sit next to him. To enjoy his ridiculous cologne and watch him enjoy whatever he ate or drank with that ridiculous enthusiasm, like he was tasting heaven in every bite. To sit with him and drink wine and talk about everything or nothing and to just watch him with his stupid hair and stupid smile and stupid bow tie--

Granted at the sodding Pony Club he would probably want to twist himself into knots in secondhand embarrassment at everyone flailing around and acting like idiots. Especially when Aziraphale got into it. He would hate every moment of _that_ , he knew, and it was probably a really bad idea. He _knew_ it was a bad idea. The _angel_ knew it was a bad idea.

But some snarling writhing part of him _wanted to do it anyway._  

“It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.” But he wasn’t trying harder than this. The last thing he was going to do tonight was throw himself at the brick wall that was Aziraphale. It was better when he wasn’t sure. It was easier. He could _feel_ from a distance. Desire from a distance. Hope from the other side of the sodding globe. Wanting was a hell of a lot easier than almost but not quite having.

“Well…” Aziraphale said. “If…you’re sure.”

He couldn’t tell if the angel was sure. He couldn’t tell if he was unsure because of the club or Crowley or both. He flicked his tongue in irritation, pushing his heel against the asphalt for the drag, the vibration, anything to work loose the irritation in him.

“I’m sure.”

He was sure that he didn’t want to do this. That he would rather do anything sodding else. That it was probably going to be a disaster in the making. He was sure Aziraphale wasn’t sure about it either, and probably didn’t even want him to be there, though the thought made his insides twist, it was the truth. He was sure he wished the Anti-Christ had never been born and that he and Aziraphale could have gone on thwarting one another into eternity.  At least then he’d know just where he stood with the angel. At least then Aziraphale would need him for something other than--

What _did_ he need him for anyway?

Crowley shook his head and tried not to think about it. He was not going to have a crisis about it. He was absolutely bloody not.

“Well… Thank you,” Aziraphale said, the politeness in his voice killing Crowley by degrees. “I’ll see you Friday about eight?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, getting up, dusting off his denim.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I’ll let you--”

“Wait, what did you want?” Crowley said before he could go. He’d called for a reason after all, hadn’t he?”

“Want?”

“Yeah. Why did you call me?”

“Oh…well…” Aziraphale chuckled in that light, nervous way. “I suppose… I …just wanted to say hello.”

_God_. Why had he asked. It felt as if heart had been shoved back in and was now rasping against his ribs. Breathing was a trick he’d forgotten. He blinked. He could feel his nails bite into his palm and the urge to do _something_ rose in him like a great bloody wave. He bit the inside of his lip, but the slight pain didn’t help.

“Hello, then,” he managed.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, sounding lightly amused and he hated him. _Hated_ him. It would be much sodding easier if he wasn’t so-- if he didn’t sound so-- if he didn’t make Crowley want to get on his knees and ask to be forgiven and that was just so sodding stupid that--

“See you Friday at eight then?” Aziraphale said.

“See you.” Crowley said.

“Goodbye,” Aziraphale said.

“Bye.”

There was a moment when he could just hear soft breathing on the other end of the line and then nothing.

Crowley kicked the rubbish bin. Stalked out onto the pavement with different emotions roiling in him. By the time he got to the Bentley he was ready to drive. To just drive somewhere. Anywhere. Fast and furious and breaking as many laws as possible just to stick it to…someone. Anyone. Everyone. But mostly Aziraphale.

He put in a CD without looking at it before pulling out of this parking spaces and narrowly avoiding a taxi coming the other direction. that honked at him angrily. He expected Queen. He wanted Queen. Something hard and bright and heavy that would get the fire in his veins.

As if to spite him, the low whiskey tones of Lou Reed filled the car.

 

“ _Sometimes I feel so happy_

_Sometimes I feel so sad_

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_But mostly you just make me mad_

_Baby, you just make me mad_

 

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on your pale blue eyes._ ”

 

Crowley took a deep shuddering breath and drove the car.

 


	3. Good Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale knew inviting Crowley, however reluctantly, to a soiree at the Horse and Pony was a bad idea. Even worse when he found out what kind of party it was. Still, what's done is done and he hopes, despite the odds, he can find a way to do some good.... They do need him, after all. ...Right?

Aziraphale looked at himself in the full length mirror and cringed. The vicar costume he’d bought at the pound shop swept straight to the floor, a shapeless mass of synthetic black fabric, except where it gathered awkwardly at the waist. Black never did anything for him anyway. It always left him looking pale and washed out. But this? This was a disaster in the making.

“You look absolutely ridiculous,” he told himself as he tugged at the starched uncomfortable collar and, then with an irritated touch, made it rest a bit softer at his skin. “You only have yourself to blame for this, you know.”

It had been a horrible idea from the start, really. He should have never applied for the Horse and Pony. Oh it had _seemed_ a good idea at the time… Joining the old club and being _part_ of something more than himself. Not to mention it would be a great place to go to when he was tired of the silence of the evening and wanted to seek out a more convivial atmosphere.

And it would have been _fine_ , he told himself, if it had _just_ been a soiree. Crowley might have gotten bored and slunk out after a while, letting him breathe a little easier, he thought with a complicated sort of guilt. But, no, he’d found out entirely too late that he was expected to attend-- Aziraphale made a face. A Vicars and Tarts Party.

He’d even tried to wriggle out of it. Just yesterday he’d called them up, thinking to thank them but bow out due to something unavoidable coming up--but the Stable Master had been so kind and genuine, saying his presence was _just_ the sort of thing the good old H&P needed to raise it’s spirits, since times had been _so_ hard. And it was, after all, for charity.

Aziraphale wished the charity part had reached him more than the flattery. But to his credit, he thought, at least the charity was a huge consideration, and he could help the lost young men of the H&P club. Offer them a little light in this trying time.

If only the _blessed_ party was anything other than Vicars and Tarts.

Oh, it was _hardly_ his first one and not even his first one at the Horse and Pony Club.

But it was the first one that Crowley _insisted_ to come along.

He knew _why,_ of course. He knew, or guessed, that Crowley must be fairly lonely. The Arrangement _had_ sort of fallen apart after all. No use keeping each other in check when there was no one keeping score. He also wondered if the demon suffered the same lack of purpose, though he had seemed _fine_ the last time he was here. Almost cheerful. Though worried… Aziraphale put a hand over his heart, touched by that gesture still; the way Crowley had looked into his eyes, touched his cheeks with gentle hands-- all to assure him in his moment of silly panic.

It was a _problem_ , Aziraphale told himself sternly. A continuing problem, really. Crowley cared for him deeply. Too deeply. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure that he should or could return those feelings! He really should discourage Crowley more for the demon’s own sake. To push him away for the greater good. Even the slightest encouragement was a horrid act, he knew. Near torture for the poor thing.

And that was why he simply had to dissuade him from coming. That was the concern that drove him most. True there was _some_ desire to not spend the whole evening being judged by the demon; of being stared at through those dark glasses, and perhaps even earning a cringe or two, as if he was…some sort of embarrassment. As if he was just some soft silly Angel with soft silly hobbies which Crowley found absolutely humiliating.

“I don’t care what you think,” he told himself and the imaginary Crowley firmly, tugging at his vestment. “And it is all for the best.”

He was simply _obligated_ to convince him that this was a horrible idea. Aziraphale cupped his hands against his stomach in a posture which he imagined was kind and yet stern. He arranged his expression to one of benevolence, and spoke.

“Crowley,” he began. “I know that you’ve been terribly lonely, but just now is a little inconvenient. No… _Gracious._ I’d never get past the first part.”

Pointing out his vulnerability was one thing. Crowley wouldn’t soon forgive him for that! But inconvenience was a bridge too far. Clearing his throat, he tried again, letting his expression fall into something a little more natural.

“Crowley, I would do just about anything if you changed your plans-- and do you really want to give him _that_ window of opportunity?” Not that he didn’t trust Crowley per se, but there was no need to give him temptation either. Taking a deep breath, he clasped his hands together behind him this time, lifted his head and said:

“I’ve completely changed my plans at the last minute. Funny how life works. See you next week. Toodle-pip. Absolutely nothing suspicious or transparent about this. I’m sure you’ll be _completely_ deceived.”

Aziraphale groaned softly to himself, dragging a hand over his face. This was going _nowhere_. Maybe he could pretend the soiree was canceled and go get quietly drunk at the pub which _hopefully_ had a great deal fewer Americans in it.

That way he could disappoint everyone in one fell swoop.

No, no this wouldn’t work _at_ all. He let his hands drop to his sides and looked at his reflection sternly. He looked ridiculous, and he was ridiculous, but at the end of the day…

“You made this bed and now you will lie in it,” he told himself. “Think of it as a lesson in humility. And on avoiding this sort of thing in the future. You are an Angel. You don’t need anything but God’s grace.”

…Provided she was still there to give it.

But of course she was! He thought. If she weren’t, he wouldn’t be able to perform a single miracle. She was there because he could feel it. If he closed his eyes and focused, he’d be able to feel that small burning ember of her Presence.

…Wouldn’t he…?

From outside there came a soft thump and the low grumble of the Bentley’s idling engine, unwinding the knot that had grown in the center of his chest. Aziraphale let out a breath-- only to have it tangle once more as he thought of the evening he would have to… to look forward to.

But perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, Aziraphale thought, as he made his way to the entrance. Maybe Crowley’s feelings would be flattened somewhat by sheer, horrid, second hand embarrassment. He took a moment to center himself and then clapped the lights off before leaving and locking up behind him.

  _Thankfully_ , it was good and dark and he had escaped notice, though as soon as he opened the door, the dome light clicked on-- another Adam improvement no doubt--and he was able to see Crowley, dark and slender in the driver’s side, his eyebrows rising over his glasses.

“Good evening, Crowely,” he said, getting in the car, hoping that if he pretended nothing whatever was wrong, Crowley wouldn’t bring it up.

“Good evening,” Crowley said with exaggerated drama. “Can I drop you anywhere, vicar?”

“Just-- drive the car,” Aziraphale said with as much dignity as he could muster, feeling his cheeks blister already. _Honestly._

“Of course, _padre_. Anything you like.” He pulled out onto the street, narrowly avoiding a cab coming the other way. Aziraphale clenched his hands on his lap. He could hear the unasked question hanging in the air. Why did they have to talk about it? They didn’t have to talk about it. There was _absolutely_ nothing to talk about.

He rather preferred the silence. The silence was nice. The hum of the Bentley’s tires. The whiskey voiced singer crooning through the speakers:

_‘Over the hill right now,_

_And you_ _’re looking for love._

 _You_ _’re over the hill right now,_

 _And you_ _’re looking for love._

_I_ _’ll come running to you,_

 _Honey when you--_ _’_

  
Crowley turned off the radio. Aziraphale braced himself.

“No. Sorry. Have to ask. _What_ the bleeding Heaven are you wearing _?_ _”_

“Do we _have_ to talk about it?” he said, trying one last shot. “Crowley, that was a stop light.”

“It was just a suggestion, and _yes_. I’m going to find out eventually. Might as well.” He sounded amused which was somehow worse. _You don_ _’t have to come,_ Aziraphale thought of saying, threading his fingers together. _Just drop me off and forget I ever said you could go_.  
  
He could do that, he knew. Crowley would leave if he asked him to. Though they would have to argue a bit first and he’d be hurt though he’d never admit it and Aziraphale couldn’t do that over something so petty as his own injured pride. So he raised his head, glad at least it was dark enough to hide the heat rising to his face and said:

“It’s a Tarts and Vicars party.”

“It’s a _what_?” Crowley said with a laugh in his voice.

“I know you heard me the first time,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not repeating it.”

“That’s _hilarious_ ,” Crowley said He laughed and sat back, with only one hand resting indolently on the wheel. “And here I thought it was going to be boring.”

Which was just what he was afraid of. But courage, Aziraphale, he told himself. After all, having Crowley amused wasn’t _such_ a bad thing and it was nice to see him enjoying himself in a way that didn’t cause mayhem-- Aziraphale watched him a moment as he drove, admiring the elegance of his fingers and the lazy way his thumb stroked the steering wheel. Maybe it might be a good evening after all.

“It’s a good thing ye’ve got Laird John MacDonald wi’ ye,” Crowley said in that _ridiculous_ brogue that sent heat right back up to Aziraphale’s face. It was going to be a _horrible_ night.

“Crowley, don’t you _dare_.”

“Och, now, my Winsome Lass, I know your shy tae look on my quiverin’ lance…”

“ _Crowley_.”

“Just know that it quivers for ye,” he finished in an almost purr, grinning at him in the dark. Aziraphale refused to acknowledge it.

“I wish I’d never let you read that horrid little book.” If he’d known this was going to happen, he’d would have never picked it up.

“Come on, Angel. You laughed. Don’t deny you did.”

“Well… maybe a little…” After a while the …situations had become so outrageous they were almost funny. He hadn’t expected Crowley to do the Winsome Lass’s part, too and he couldn’t quite deny the falsetto had made him chuckle.

In retrospect, it had been a little sweet. No… very sweet. Crowley must have done it on purpose to take his mind off things, Aziraphale realized, gaze sliding over to the demon’s dark profile, a kind of warmth filling him. He wasn’t one for books after all, and, well, acting wasn’t quite his thing-- at least not doing voices. Nor making himself look like a fool.

Though he could orate with the best of them. Aziraphale couldn’t help but remember that one night after Hamlet’s first wild success-- due to demonic intervention true, but it had still been amazing. They had both gone to celebrate with the bard himself! Well, they’d been nearby at any rate. Burbage, deep in his cups, had said something to Aziraphale hardly worth the dignity of remembering and, shortly after--apropo of seemingly nothing, Crowely had gotten up and recited Hamlet’s soliloquy.

No, not recited. Aziraphale decided; growled, whispered, the words had flown into the room like water, sweeping them all effortlessly into the scene; into the place and time. The inn was so still even the mice were listening, Aziraphale was sure. Burbage had gone red, then white and Aziraphale distinctly remembered Shakespeare’s cup, hovering just centimeters above the table, as if he was too enraptured to put it down. Even he himself had been a little ashamed at how the fine hairs on the back of his neck had risen to the chills that went through him.

 Afterward, there had been a deep silence; broken only when Crowley had whispered ‘Edinburgh’ in Aziraphale’s ear, quite inconsiderately, and went out into the night. Dear William had caused a bit of a stir chasing after him, and Aziraphale didn’t blame him. It had taken him forever to get that recitation out of his head.

Anyway, it had been a kind gesture, the reading of that little book. He tried to think of something to say about it. As he thought, he couldn’t help but notice, through the flashing pass of the street lights, Crowley’s left hand on the seat between them; just resting there. He was tempted to drift his fingers over the back of it, to feel the line of his bones and the warmth of his skin. He wondered how delicious it would feel to tangle their fingers together.

No! No. _Get ahold of yourself_ , he told himself fiercely. That was not a road he was going to go down, so it was cruel even to start! He would resist that temptation, thank you! Though…he was not above gratitude.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said, glad his voice was steady. “For reading it I mean.”  
  
“No, no, no. Don’t thank me,” Crowley grumbled. “There’s no point in flustering you with sssmut if you’re just going to thank me for it.”

“It’s not the sssmut that I objected to,” Aziraphale said, feeling faintly pleased that Crowley had wanted to fluster him, though carefully not stopping to examine why. “It’s the horrible writing. Quivering lances. Honestly. I mean it’s no rods encased in velvet, thank Heaven, but--”

“Wait you mean you’ve read this kind of thing before? Before…” he waved a hand vaguely upward and Aziraphale assumed he meant their current situation.

“Of course. One can hardly get away from it.” Especially running in Dear Oscar’s circle. Not to mention that stint with Byron. That was an education and a half.

“Thought your lot would be against that sort of thing."

“Well, it does fall under the sin of lust, I suppose. But I didn’t have too much trouble with it. Have to know the vices before I can advise.” He chuckled a little, proud of his little saying which seemed to slip over Crowley’s head so he cleared his throat and went on. “Though there is something to be said against pornography in general. Unless it’s in written form, it can be hard to tell who might be taken advantage of. Turn left here,” Aziraphale said and pressed a hand to the roof as they careened around a corner, cutting off a lorry which honked at them angrily.

“I’m sure we shouldn’t’ve passed in front of him like that,” Aziraphale said.

“He’ll be fine. Also it’s weird to hear you say pornography.” Crowley made a face. “I don’t like it.”

“Because you think I’m naive?” Aziraphale said, ready to leap to his own defense on the subject.

“Because you make it sound boring. _Pornography_ ,” he mimicked the last in a posh accent with a curious little growl in it. “It’s supposed to sound filthy, not: ‘take you out to tea.’”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be filthy, you know,” Aziraphale said. “Sex didn’t use to be.”

“No, no. Don’t say sex. That’s worse.”

“What then? Making love?”

“No.”

“Canoodling?”

“Can-- Where do you even-- That is not a word. You cannot convince me that’s a word. I can’t even _say_ it without wanting to throw up in my mouth a little.”

“What a charming thought,” said Aziraphale dryly. “That’s a red light. _That_ _’s a red light_!”

“Yeah, I see what it is, Angel. You want me to hit a dead stop from eighty?”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and praying instinctively as they zipped through the intersection. “What should I call it then?”

“I don’t know. It. Just say: doing it. I’ll get what you mean.”

“How articulate.” Honestly, he didn’t see what was wrong with just calling it what it was, but for Crowley’s sake he would reluctantly change the verbage. “Doing it. Really? It sounds so sordid. And it was more than just _it_. It was an expression of love, togetherness, tenderness--"  
  
“I can tell there are some back alleys _you_ _’ve_ never been down.”

“Well it’s supposed to be!” Aziraphale said, defensively. “That’s how it began after all, in the Garden. Adam and Eve made-- had-- _did_ it. _”_ He rolled his eyes. “All the time. I don’t know where they found the energy.”

“And you _watched_?” said Crowley, sounding surprised. Aziraphale could feel the demon looking at him out of the corner of his eye and his face heated despite his best efforts.

“It was a bit hard to give them privacy when they’d sometimes stop in the middle of a conversation to… you know…” He couldn’t describe that as doing it. He just couldn’t. “Canoodle.”

Crowley groaned.

“And it was _sweet_. It really was. Quite beautiful. Oh, he made her _sigh_ \--” He smiled a little, indulging in that ancient memory. “And she could pull him to her side with just a look! They were _so_ in love.” Of course love had been everywhere in those days. Everything in Eden loved and loving. It was in the air, the water, the rich soil, their voices as they walked through the Garden. He had thought that nothing evil would have been even able to enter the Garden. Or that he’d be able to hone in on the one dark jarring splinter that wasn’t as saturated with love as everything else. But then, he’d never been a good guard. Honestly he wasn’t a particularly good angel either.

“Yeah, fine, but that’s an exception to the rule, Angel. Not everyone is all holding hands and mushy eyes at one another. I mean look at Don Juan. Casanova. Sodom and bloody Gomorrah for a start. _That_ was an interesting time.”

“I’m not surprised you were there,” Aziraphale said. “They were horrid little places. At least Sodom. Can’t say much about Gomorrah. We never really got that far.”

“Oh you were with the smiting lot then? Left before that. Got _really_ bored. Turn right here?”

“Yes, but mind the curb.” He pressed his lips together at the resounding bump that sent him jostling off the seat a little. “Sometimes I think you do that on purpose.”

Crowley chuckled in a way that seemed to say yes and Aziraphale wished he could be a little more annoyed by that or a little less charmed.

“I didn’t smite, per se. But it was tempting. Mind you, I might have gotten in trouble if I had, because I think Lot could have used a good smiting. We were there to do a little reconnaissance, you know. Oh!” He laid a hand on the seat between them, trying not to notice how the edge of his hand brushed the edge of Crowley’s. “ _Tell_ me you sampled some of Oded’s stuffed dates. I don’t know what he put in them, but they were _marvelous_. I never did find out where he relocated.”

“Well…” Crowley made a face. “There was a lot of date stuffing involved, but I don’t remember an Oded.”

“Very funny,” Aziraphale said, removing his hand and completely ignoring that gleam of teeth.

“Anyway…” Aziraphale trailed off as Crowley lifted that hand, shaking it just a little in an interesting gesture that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was supposed to see. That was…decidedly more interesting than it should be.

“Anyway?” Crowley said.

“Er--, oh! It was me and Sandalphon and Imamiah from accounts. No sooner than we got in the gate than we were _hounded_ by a pack of brutes who wanted to _know_ us. And not in the dinner and a chat sort of way.”

“Yeah, I heard Sodom had a hell of a welcoming committee.”

“That was probably your doing, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, then recanted. “Or one of you. Demons I mean.”

“Not mine. I was there on holiday. I kept trying to convince people to go. Guys, I said, all you’ve got to do is live in that town. At most, you’ve got to lift a finger and point to a brothel and voilà, sin accomplished. Frankly, it would be harder to tempt the humans to stop.”

Aziraphale could see him doing that too, lurking idly on one of those narrow dusty streets, waiting for someone to pass by. Only… well, back then he would have had that wonderfully long curled hair, that always shone a soft burnished red when the sun hit it just right. And he’d had a kind of… Well Aziraphale didn’t want to say innocence, not about a demon-- but something. An openness. An eagerness. A ready smile. It had been quite sweet looking back on it. And even in the moment, sometimes it was difficult to remember they were enemies. Supposed to be. So he might have been standing there, watching, hair and eyes caught in the perfect slant of light…

“So what happened?” Crowley asked.

“Hm?” Aziraphale said, banishing the mental image as quickly as he could.

“With the smiting run.”

“Oh, well! It was ghastly. Lot-- Abraham’s nephew, I believe, hurried us to his house-- but the ‘welcoming committee’ kept insisting they cast us out. And he offered them his virgin daughters in our stead.”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley said. “And he didn’t get smited?”

“Unfortunately not. I even reconfirmed the plans with head office. But he was the holy man we were meant to save because what he did was considered hospitality.” He clicked his tongue. “Anyway, I blinded the brutes so they couldn’t welcome _anyone_ for quite a long time --and it was rather permanent anyway as all the smiting began. Sandalphon took _entirely_ too much enjoyment out of it if you ask me. And not _everyone_ in Sodom or Gomorrah, I expect, needed smiting. Sometimes I think we just took Abraham’s word and didn’t bother checking for ourselves. Still, I only managed to convince a few people to move. Find some other place that wasn’t about to be covered with ash and brimstone. Only… Home is home, I suppose.”

“D’you know, sometimes I think there’s not a lot of difference between your lot and mine.”

Not too long ago, Aziraphale would have debated him. They did things for the greater good! They uplifted humanity! And in many ways they did. Still did. But he couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was actually sincere, as they’d all been so ready to smash humanity between heaven and hell like ants between two enormous rocks.

“No, I don’t suppose there is…” he murmured. Though there should be. Clearly the greater good should be about more than fighting for a side. After all, what was the point? What did it matter who won?

“Good thing we’re on our own side,” Crowley said a bit awkwardly, as if he were trying to be helpful.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, managing a smile. Then he realized: “Oh, we’ve stopped.”

“We’re here.”

“I see…”

The neighborhood had changed since the ‘30s. Newer buildings had grown out of the bombed rubble and hemmed in the converted town home the club was housed in. It looked old and a little dreary compared to its fellows, like a middle aged man glumly continuing the downward trend.

At least the club itself still seemed cheerful. There was still the old horseshoe hanging between the upper windows, decorated with a vine of brown and gold leaves in deference to the season. The gold and green curtains hung in the windows like the lowered eyes of a lover.

Inside would be quaint, he knew. Full of young giddy young men mostly, happy for the freedom to be just who they were. As much as they could anyway. Playing the game of pretend while also being serious about it. No one could take it too seriously, after all, or people would _talk_. But they would be light and happy and gay and there would be wist or darts or perhaps even dancing. He could learn a new dance here.

Move over, gavotte, he thought with a faint grin.

And, of course, tonight there would be vicars and tarts, which left a bit of a bad taste. Though that could be fun in its own right if everyone was cheeky about it, he told himself firmly. Might as well try and stay upbeat about the whole thing! So long as there was nothing lurid going on, he was sure he could enjoy himself.

 The only drawbacks were the pulsing beat of music that had started up from somewhere, one of those annoying “dance” tunes… and… well…the more he thought of Crowley being there, the more dread filled him. How could they enjoy themselves?

It was up to him to make sure they did! After all, he wasn’t just here for any reason. Not just to have fun. He was here because he needed to help lift them into the light, as the Stable Master had said. And, well, they couldn’t really do that with someone judging every little frivolity they indulged in. God forbid someone be the least bit silly. This was going to be horrible to do, but he had to. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was.

And it would help with the…other thing too, he thought, an uncomfortable feeling squirming in his gut. After all, it was better to be--pushed away early than to be let down. And it wasn’t exactly early. Anyway, it was for the best.

“Well.” He had to swallow. “Thank you for driving me, but I really think I should just go one alone.”

“Oh, Angel, _come on_ ,” Crowley groaned, slumping in his seat. “Don’t-- Look, whatever I did, I’m sorry, alright?”

“You’ve done absolutely nothing,” Aziraphale said, wishing for the best was easy even as he twisted his fingers in his lap. “And if it was just about me, I would reconsider…” And he _would_ , he told himself. “But it isn’t. This is an obligation. A moral duty…”

“That’s bullocks” Crowley snapped, interrupting him before he’d even gotten a good head of steam. “Moral duty… You’ve given them six thousand years of moral duty. You gave them your flaming…flaming sword. They won’t care. They never do. A couple years down the road and they won’t even know your name.”

“It’s not for the recognition, Crowley.” And it would take a few years more than that! He wasn’t completely forgettable. “They need me.”

“Please.” It was the please that stung, but he lifted his chin, above that sort of reproach, because they _did_ and there was nothing Crowley could say to change that

“They do! It must be a trying time for them and the Stable Master--”

“ _Stable Master_?” Crowley echoed. Aziraphale could practically hear the cringe in his voice and knew without a doubt that this was the right decision. It was, in fact, the only decision.

“The _Stable Master_ said they were going through a particularly trying time and so could use someone to lift their spirits. Perhaps even guide them in a way.” And what an exciting prospect now that he thought about it. Naturally he couldn’t do it for very long, nor interfere too much but… The point was: “But that will be impossible to do with … with… well with someone judging them the whole time and thinking they’re…” He didn’t want to say the word. It was such a harsh word. But perhaps now it needed to be said. “Humiliating.”

“Ughhhhh.” Crowley slumped even further. More than Aziraphale thought he could without actually sliding off the seat. “Maybe then they can grow a thicker skin.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t have to. Maybe they just want to _enjoy_ themselves. I’m still an Angel you know, Crowley. I can’t just bring a wolf into their midst.”

“Never stopped you before,” he said. And, well, that wasn’t necessarily untrue, but it wasn’t entirely true either. There was a reason why he had never invited Crowley to more intimate places like this, trying to maintain a strict relationship line aside.

“Well it should have, and it is now,” Aziraphale said, opening the car door before either of them said anything they’d regret.

“I can’t believe you’re uninviting me.”

“I never wanted you to come in the first place.” …Oh… he’d never considered the first words would be his. They hung in the air like a lead weight and he wanted to take them back. But… they were true. It was important to be consistent. “We can do lunch sometime maybe.”

“Keep your sodding lunch. What do I care.”

“It’s for the best, I’m sorry, but it is,” Aziraphale said, telling Crowley that, telling _himself_ that. It was absolutely for the best for the poor young men up there that just needed a guiding hand. And the best for Crowley as well, even if he didn’t see it himself. “I’ll find my own way home, thank you.” And shut the door.

“They’re not going to care, you know,” Crowley called after him as he made his way toward the house. “They’ll forget you. And Heaven won’t care either. They’re not going to say: “oh look he’s doing good again, too bad we told him to get fucked.’ _No one_ cares, Aziraphale!”

It hurt. It felt like the breath was sucked right out of him.But it was perhaps well deserved.

“I realize that, Crowley. I’m not an idiot,” he said with as much steel as he could muster, hardly looking at him over his shoulder. Humans might remember him for quite a while, but Angels were meant to fade from memory eventually. And he’d always known on some level how much heaven cared about him. Which was to say--

Which was to say--

Not very much at all.

“Then _why_.”

“You know why. I’m still an Angel. I still have a mission. It’s for the greater good.”

“ _Fuck_ your greater good,” he snapped. Aziraphale closed his eyes and his fingers tightened as he heard Crowley take a ragged breath.

“Angel, I didn’t mean--”

Not an apology. He-- this was hard enough.

“Just…go.” The words tasted bitter somehow. “Please.”

There was a moment where he was sure Crowley wouldn’t leave. Almost hoped that he’d get out of the car and come anyway, or at least argue more. But he prayed he left. Found somewhere else to go, somewhere better to be.

“Fine,” Crowley said in a low rough growl. “But when they forget you, don’t come crying to me.”

He winced a little as he heard the Bentley shift into gear and take off with a squeal of tires. Aziraphale didn’t watch him go, though a part of him wanted to see it receding into the distance. A part of him wanted to go back to the time when this didn’t matter so much. When it didn’t feel all or nothing.

But there was no turning back the clock. There was only heading toward the future.

Lifting his head, Aziraphale took a deep breath and headed for the club.

 

*********

 

 

 Aziraphale stared out the darkness beyond the window, delicately holding the cup of what must charitably be called wine between his fingers. It was only nine-thirty, and it had felt like the longest hour and a half he’d had for a very long time.

Oh, It wasn’t the club’s fault. They had been quite friendly to him the moment he’d walked in the door. Had even been pleased to see him, which was quite refreshing. They were-- well, an interesting sort. Theatrical but of a different kind of theatrics than he was used to. The middle aged men in the room all pretended to be vicars and the tarts, well dressed in vests and form fitting trousers, pretended to be interested in them. There was even a lively game where the vicars tried to steal pins from off the collars of the tarts, for some sort of prize no doubt. He had been offered a few himself, perhaps out of sympathy, but had politely declined, having not interest whatever in any sort of prize they were offering.

It was true the modern music was not precisely to his taste, and the food was catered by someone verging on unfortunate with too much of an emphasis on cucumber sandwiches… And the furniture was worn in the second hand pawn way rather than friendly little antique shop way. But bless them, they tried. They had welcomed him warmly and plied him with food and drink and, when he had asked tentatively about dances to get in the spirit of things, after an uncomfortable bit of staring, a man named Argyle, the poor thing, had suggested something called ‘The Funky Chicken’. Fortunately that was vetoed by the stares of the tarts so Aziraphale didn’t have to figure a way to politely decline. He did like fun, but after all he had _standards_.

He couldn’t _imagine_ what Crowley would think for one.

Even if it was a bit too late to consider that now. The fact was, he had done wrong by him. Oh, he still stood by letting these humans have their fun without the demon’s judgmental stare, but he should have never agreed to let Crowley come in the first place. But Crowley had _asked_ and he had _wanted_ so much…. Regardless, Aziraphale should have come up with something better. A lunch even. They did well with lunches and it wouldn’t have been hard to set one up to placate him. Though he hadn’t thought to at the time.

That was a bit beside the point, really, he thought, looking into the cup, wondering if he should risk another mouthful. Watching all these older men and younger men slink around the room and insinuate to one another left him feeling a bit cold, if he was honest. He had the feeling it would be the same even if it were the ‘30’s version of the Horse and Pony, or even if it was a perfect replica of the Hundred Guineas Club. It felt…. _passe_. As if somehow, it didn’t matter. Same as everything else, he supposed, glumly. It was as if he no longer fit in his own life somehow. As if he’d grown beyond it, or perhaps had been reduced.

The worst part of it all was that they didn’t even seem to need his…well, his uplifting. He glanced over, trying not to be conspicuous about it. Though he needn’t have worried. The vicars and tarts had formed a conga line and were threading about the room; wooping and some of the tarts were throwing glitter. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile a little, sinking back. Humans. Such capacity for fun and merriment in a world which was still set against them. That was always what charmed and engaged him in humanity. This ability to bounce back, to change, to redefine who they were-- even in a single moment. It was at times like these that he wondered if they even needed heaven or hell. Or if, in fact, they ever had.

Well they must, he thought, told himself. In some capacity they must. If he started to doubt that need then… the yawning black pit wasn’t far behind. Aziraphale drank a sip of wine, regretted it, then drank a little more, turning his gaze once more out the black window and trying to build his resolve.

There was a puff of displaced air as Argyle flopped beside him and Aziraphale was glad for the distraction. He offered a small smile to the rotund man whose red cheerful face was dotted here and there with sweat.

“Need a break from all that fun,” Argyle said happily, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead. “You could take my place in line, you know. Plenty of tarts to go around.”

“No, thank you. I am quite comfortable where I am.” The man’s enjoyment did cheer him up a little he had to admit and he was able to relax a little and smile at him

“You sure are a quiet one, Mr. Fell,” Argyle said. “With your er-- essay.” He had an odd smile on the word that Aziraphale couldn’t quite read. “I’d’ve thought you’d be Queening it up a bit more.”

“A Vicars and Tarts party hardly seems the place for it,” he said. He _could_ have been a tart, he supposed. He did have somewhere in his wardrobe a shimmering satin shrug lined with feathers that had sent the boys into stitches at the Hundred Guineas. But given what seemed to be expected of Tarts at this party, he was rather glad he didn’t.

“But I used to do a quite bit of Queening back in the day. I even auditioned for the role of Tatiana once.” Just for a bit of fun, of course. He hadn’t actually intended to get the role. It was one thing observing, after all, but quite another participating. It didn’t help that Heaven’s stance on actors had been rather poor at the time. So it all worked out for the best that the moment he’d gotten on stage, all the lines had flown right out of his head and he’d stood there stuttering for a few moments before giving everyone mercy and showing himself off.

“Oh yeah. Tatiana. That’s a good one,” said Argyle in the manner of someone who had no idea what he was talking about. Aziraphale forgave him. It was hardly one of Shakespeare’s better plays in his opinion, but a delightful romp nonetheless.

“Glad you’re here though,” Argyle continued. “You’re really going to help us out.

“Am I?” Aziraphale said, feeling a spark of hope and hating himself for it, especially since he couldn’t exactly see how-- but perhaps he was overlooking something.

“Yeah! The Ponys hasn’t had this much action in a long time. Usually we just sit around drinking and watch footie. Grouse about love lives that sort of thing. But then our old Stabler stepped down and we got Cec-- who came in like a miracle, or I’m sure we woulda gone down the tube. Cec says to us, men! He says. We should do something more than just sit around. Find some way to give back to the community.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Aziraphale said, his own anticipation growing. He had never thought of a club of this kind getting involved in the community, but why not? Times had changed a great deal after all.

“’Course we’ve had ideas. This party for one. Paid a bit to attend. All going to a good cause, mind. Widows and Orphans fund. And then there was the charity round up last week going to Our Heroes Overseas. And a door to door drive two months ago for ASMR. Don’t ask me what the acronym stands for. It’s all for Cec, you know. His drive. His ambition. But gotten to be a bit of a disaster and we’ve been down hearted…” He smiled at Aziraphale with open cheer. “Which is what we’ve got you for…”

“Oh!” To guide perhaps? To inspire? To uplift? He approved of charities, of course, and donated liberally to them-- Though not too much because he couldn’t afford to raise any eyebrows… But running a charity! He didn’t know how, but he was sure he could find out-- or perhaps giving them ideas, or even just a good get up and go when they were at their worst.

“We’ve been looking for an accountant.”

“Oh…” Well… he supposed he could do that too. He was quite good with money. His tax records were so meticulous that the government had checked him five times assuming he was up to something. It did make him a bit tastefully smug when they had to grudgingly admit to finding nothing untoward.

“Yes,” he managed a smile. “I’m…quite happy to.” It wasn’t his preferred activity, but he should be grateful. He’d wanted to be part of something larger and this was a good opportunity. And perhaps more opportunities in the future.

“Woop! Here I go again!” Argyle said as he was dragged back into the conga line. “You sure you don’t want a go?”

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale said, keeping the smile up, keeping the face pleasant. “Weak ankles.” But Argyle didn’t seem to hear him the line conga’d on without him. Aziraphale brushed some glitter from his cheap costume. If that was to be his role, that was to be his role. And it was after all better than nothing. Better than a cluttered lonely shop waiting for… for something. Calls to action could annoy him but the silence was worse. The lack of expectation. The endless stretch of time. Until, God forbid, heaven and hell decided to come against them after all or, or the other war, he supposed. The final final one. If he were the kind that went to bed, it would hardly seem worth it to get up in the morning.

He just wanted…. Wanted something so big he couldn’t even begin to describe it, yet something small too, precious as a jewel… that he could hold onto and say: this is I. Something… ineffable. But how could he look for something he couldn’t even begin to describe? How could he hold onto something he didn’t understand? Who would come to find the shepherd?

“You look like you’re having a hell of a good time.”

Aziraphale smiled, then quickly rearranged his face because he was actually quite annoyed about this. He turned his head to give a hard look to the demon who was sprawled sideways on an overstuffed chair, one long leg draped insolently over the arm of it, the other braced against the floor. Crowley didn’t seem to notice the look. Instead he just saluted Aziraphale lazily with the red cup and drank from it before making a middling face as if he’d had worse. If he had Aziraphale _almost_ took pity on him. Almost. But his pity was just about used up.

“I thought I asked you not to come.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re going to be working, I might as well be working. Have nothing better to do.”

“I’m not working.” He was attempting to enjoy himself, he wanted to say, but even then he knew how that would go over.

“Doing good in your free time then. Fill me up, angel.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said. “You’re not even supposed to _be_ here.”

“Not you,” Crowley said, wiggling his cup at one of the tarts who had broken away from the conga line. The young man’s lips curled into a smile and he took the red cup from Crowley’s hand, their fingers nearly brushing.

“And who are you?” the tart said in a pleased melodic tone. Crowley grinned, showing far more teeth than was necessary.

“Just call me the big bad wolf,” he replied. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and wished that didn’t come off as charming. The reason he wasn’t charmed at all was because he was so thoroughly annoyed by it. He sipped his wine and regretted it.  
  
“You should be careful saying that,” Aziraphale said as the tart sashayed away. “The big bad wolf came to a sticky end.”

“Yeah, but he had a lot of fun along the way,” Crowley said, fairly growled through the grin, which was effective Aziraphale had to admit. He wanted to say snippily that he was glad someone was having fun, but he was also above that sort of thing and refrained.

“Well you can go have your fun somewhere else,” he replied instead. “I’m trying to help these people.”

“Oh yeah, sitting there all by yourself being miserable. I’m sure you’re a great help.”

“I am not miserable!” And he wasn’t! A little gloomy, but who wouldn’t be? After all, you could hardly expect much more of an accountant.

“You _are_ ,” Crowley said, annoyed, then slunk over and sat beside him, taking in the same spot that Argyle had but filling up so much more of it.  The sofa was small and their knees were only a hair’s breadth from touching despite the angle Crowley had chosen to sit. Aziraphale felt both relieved and agitated by the proximity, wanting to defend himself-- but all the justifications suddenly seemed too much in the face of the Truth, capital letter and all.

“I suppose I am,” he said with a sigh, looking into the near empty cup. Not that admitting it made him feel any better, especially as he saw Crowley frowning at him out of the corner of his eye. The demon’s knee bumped his as if in mute sympathy and Aziraphale was both grateful for it and slightly ashamed. Angels were supposed to be better than this. Self-sufficient. Eternal fonts of hope and wisdom. Not scraping the bottom of the barrel for anything they might come up with.

“We could go somewhere else,” Crowley said and Aziraphale had to smile a little at the word ‘we’.

“I don’t think it would make any difference.” Because even if they had a pleasant meal, after that, it would be right back to where he started; alone in a suddenly too large bookshop with so much time and nothing to do.

A cheer went up from the humans and Aziraphale looked to see one of the stouter vicars trying to limbo under a curtain rod. It was…quite festive. But… he was good at festive! He was an angel after all. He was practically made for festive! And if he worked very hard here, he wouldn’t have to think of back there at all. Yes! That was excellent!

“No, no, I don’t like that look,” said Crowley. “Whatever you’re thinking just stop.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “I don’t have any look.”

“You do. It’s not going to solve anything, you know.”

“I don’t recall actually asking for your opinion,” he said trying to keep the resolution of cheer in his heart. Sometimes he didn’t think Crowley understood just how difficult it was. “But after all, I was an actor, or nearly--”

“You weren’t even close.”

“--And this should be a piece of cake! It’s just a bit of dancing--”

“I’d like to see you try to limbo.”

“--And flirting. And so long as I keep my head,” Aziraphale continued before Crowley could interject. “It should be fine.”

“Alright, dancing I’ll buy,” Crowley said, nudging Aziraphale’s knee with his own. “But the flirting? Please, Angel. What are you going to do? Ask to see their snuffbox?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it. Lifted his chin to maintain his dignity.

“Well, it worked with Byron.”

“What were _you_ doing with Byron,” said Crowley, sitting up a little, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sure they have something else I can ask to see.”

“Oh, I bet they do.”

“Like a cigarette case,” Aziraphale continued, ignoring him. “Oh! Or their mobile telephone! I can ask to hear their ring tone.” Who said he was old fashioned and behind the times? He knew what a ring tone was! He knew that people liked to share music via their mobile telephones these days! It was perfect.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Crowley said, holding his sunglasses in one hand while he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I should have stayed in the sodding car. I don’t know if I can watch this.” 

“How would you do it then?” Aziraphale said, annoyed. “You’re the master of the ‘modern age’. Enlighten me.”

“I don’t flirt. I tempt.” Crowley swept his sunglasses back on and folded his arms. “But even if I did flirt, I could do it a hell of a lot better than you.”

“Prove it.” Aziraphale didn’t believe it. True, he may be a bit old fashioned and there were other more subtler ways to flirt that just weren’t options here, but he was sure that his ways, small and pleasant as they were, would do more to move someone then whatever Crowley could do. “And no reciting anything because that’s cheating.”

Might as well keep a level playing field after all. Crowley grinned, flicking his tongue against the edge of his teeth in a most disconcerting way. He looked as if he was going to start reciting something anyway, and Aziraphale steeled himself to not be moved, when a shadow fell over them. It was the tart from before, offering Crowley the red cup filled with wine.

“Anything else I can get you?” the tart asked in an almost purr.

“Nah. ‘Ppreciate it,” Crowley said, sitting up to take the drink and then leaning back again. “See you around,” he added to the tart who frowned at them and then turned on his heel, stalking back to the festivities.

“Not going to work your wiles on him?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows “Too much of a challenge?”

“First of all, it’s flirting, not working wiles,” Crowley said, pointing at him from around the cup. “Second of all, if I’m going to flirt with someone, it’s going to be someone worth flirting with.”

“I hear the Stable Master should be here soon,” said Aziraphale with a smirk. “You might try him.”

Crowley made a face.

“I will do _anything_ so long as you don’t say that again.”

“ _Will_ you.” Now _that_ was a temptation. He couldn’t help but cast a sly smile in the demon’s direction. He wouldn’t use it against him, of course. But the thought alone had wonderful possibilities. Crowley took a deep swallow of wine that Aziraphale liked to imagine wasn’t entirely due to thirst. Then the demon moved forward in a single, fluid motion, his arm sliding along the back of the sofa and Aziraphale could just feel the whisper of it against his shoulders.

They were close now, pressed leg to leg. Aziraphale could smell the wine on his breath as it brushed over his face, as well as feel the heat of him. He was beautiful up close, magnified. Still beautiful. Always beautiful. The elegance of his nose, the darkness of his brows. From this angle, the light fell on him in such a way that Aziraphale could see his eyes too, if faintly, lowered in a strange warm way. Heat filled Aziraphale’s face which was probably a result of the horrendous wine finally hitting his system.

“You must be tired, Angel,” Crowley said, and before Aziraphale could reply that he really wasn’t, added: “Because you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

“Have I?” he murmured, because, oh, Crowley was close. Little sensations prickled in small waves under the skin of this old, new, ancient body. Perhaps it was that that made his gaze drop to that expressive mouth that could scowl in so many ways, but whose smile was warm and even dazzling. And now, something else altogether.

“Yeah…” Now their noses were touching, Crowley’s brushing against his, warm and distracting. “All day… all night… for centuries…” Another prickling wave went through him, something like pleasure, like eating something gorgeously made that melted on his tongue and slowly crept through his veins with heat. Some distant part of him was somewhat upset about this-- but that thought was hard to dwell on when the tips of Crowley’s fingers pressed warm against his shoulders and his mouth was so intoxicatingly close.

It wouldn’t take too much to lean in and make that connection, to taste what he hadn’t even dared to think about. Would it be warm and sweet, he wondered? Or spicy? Or smooth and rich? Or perhaps it would be dark and heady like the finest wine. The prospect was dizzying.

It would change so much, he knew. It would open a door that wouldn’t easily be shut and everything in his life would be spun into free fall more than it already had. And what if it got too far? What if he indulged too much on one and lost too much of the other? What if he unbecame?

Crowley leaned in and he had just enough presence of mind to lean back, smiling an apology as he gently pushed at the demon’s chest with his fingertips, trying to get some space between them.

“Yes, well, thank you for the demonstration,” Aziraphale said. “It was lovely.” And was glad when Crowley made a noise like ‘nghk’ and moved back, swallowing. There wasn’t much room on the sofa for him to move too far. So the fact that their legs were still mostly pressed together was forgivable, and since Crowley’s hand had moved the top of the sofa, that his fingers moved restlessly against the fabric a bit close to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, well, that couldn’t be helped, could it?

“Right. Anyway, you get the point,” Crowley said, after taking a sip of his wine.

“Mm.” Though Aziraphale had sort of forgotten what the point was. He raised his own cup to follow suit and frowned when he saw that it was empty.

“Here,” Crowley said, passing his over. “Might have spiked the heaven out of it.”

“Bless you,” Aziraphale said, setting his empty cup on the end table and taking the other. The wine still tasted horrible, but the heated kick to his system was well worth it. What had he even been trying to do before this? Another cheer reminded him and he watched one of the tarts now slink under the curtain rod with much more finesse.

Oh right.

This.

Aziraphale took another drink.

“You sure you want to stay?” Crowley said. He could feel the demon watching him. “We could go _literally_ anywhere else. Anywhere we wanted. Do anything we wanted.”

It was tempting, Aziraphale had to admit-- to get out of this _horrid_ costume and go somewhere with good food and a charming atmosphere. To indulge in his company and then… then what? Back to the empty days. Aziraphale reminded himself very firmly of the surge of hope he’d felt when Argyle had said that he was needed. That almost sense of recapturing something precious, some firm ground to stand upon.

“No…” Aziraphale handed the wine back. “I need to be here. Need to learn to fit in with the rest of them.” He managed a smile somehow. “But thank you…” and he meant it. For the drink. For the company. For his presence even if by all rights it should have been at least a week before they’d spoken again. It was…It was kind. And more than that, he knew. But if he sat here and thought about it he’d completely distract himself from what was at hand. Aziraphale stood, trying to shake off his lingering doubts, trying to find in himself some sort of determination and strength.

“I hope it works out for you, Angel,” Crowley said, before he could leave. The demon’s voice was rough with sympathy and achingly sincere in a way that only he could be-- There was doubt there, but so much hope. He could hear it in Crowley’s voice and _feel_ it, too, the emotions coming off the other stinging like a dagger through his heart. Aziraphale almost sat down again to be with him, had the mad idea to rest against him and forget the humans and their party and the world.

Only, he couldn’t live outside the world any longer. No. He had to live within it, as solidly as he could, because it was the only place he had left. Aziraphale nodded to say that he’d heard and managed a faint smile as he made his way toward the frolicking humans, and in every step he could feel Crowley’s gaze pressing against his back, right between his shoulder blades.

 

*********

 

A good half hour later and Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised to find that this party wasn’t difficult to be part of at all. He dodged out of the way of the bulkier tart who tried to nab at him, tapping at his broad shoulder and giggling slightly as the man whipped around, trying to see through his blindfold. Of course he _did_ have practice at this sort of blending in during human parties experience. Granted it had been quite a while, but it wasn’t a dewy eyed virgin fresh from the university, so to speak.

 Still, this was progress for him, he knew. Without a doubt! Even the music was a bit garish and the thumping beat had only seemed to become more thumping with-- he permitted himself a shudder-- strange electronic tones mixed in. But! Well, Blind Man’s Bluff was an easy game and one he was quite fond of, not to mention good at. He didn’t think they would be at all interested when he’d suggested it, but the men, tarts and vicars alike, seemed more than willing to throw themselves into the spirit of the thing.

Aziraphale was even showing off a little. He was an expert, after all, and he had always been taught to lead by example. As a testament to his skill, he hoped the others were watching well as he let the tart get close to him again, and even permitted the feathery light brush of fingers against his waist before he pivoted neatly to the side, laughing at his own cleverness and was delighted to hear the laugh of the others as well, vicars and tarts alike.

“Naughty, naughty!” he cooed. “You’ll have to be a little faster than that.” The man grinned and lunged, but Aziraphale got out of his way so that he could catch another young tart who seemed determined to be in the older tart’s way. It also helped Aziraphale get a little nearer to the wine table where he poured himself a cup, then shrugged and pertook of the bottle as he had been doing more or less steadily since he’d made this decision. Being flamingly drunk certainly lent an outstanding appeal to this whole situation.

 It was not normally something he would indulge in, and certainly not overindulge as he was doing now! At least not in this sort of setting where he hardly knew anyone. Intimate settings were quite another matter entirely and, well, back in the day, getting quietly drunk on brandy in a quaint little drawing room, listening to a man with dark intense eyes read his prose was-- well expected. And often getting quite loudly drunk with other young men certainly wasn’t out of the norm, but he’d refrained from that after that incident in Avignon, way back in one of the ‘39’s- which was not the sort of place one expected to have such an encounter but he was quite relieved to have gotten away with it.

But now, with being on the ‘bad books’ so to speak,he could imbibe whenever and wherever he wanted and people, well humans did seem to like him better. He certainly liked _them_ better. It also helped that everyone was a little drunk, tarts and vicars alike. Florid, grinning faces all around, especially as that young tart was caught in the arms of the slightly older one and held there, laughing, while the older one grinned showing beautifully white teeth. Aziraphale smiled and put a hand over his heart. Bless.

 “Come on, Fell,” said one of the vicars, a tall and spindly man who unfortunately resembled a goat with that beard. “Your turn next.”

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale said, holding up a hand. He could hardly be the blind man to capture any of the younger men in his snare. After all… “You haven’t caught me yet. If you want me, you have to earn it.” And as the daring line sizzled from his lips, he sent an equally sizzling wink at the goat faced vicar who seemed to grow even redder at it, though oh dear, oh dear, the grin that sliced across his face certainly meant trouble.

 “My turn next then,” the vicar said, holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Hand over the blindfold, I’ve got something nice on the menu.”

“I think you mean _divine_ ,” Aziraphale said, tapping a pinky to his lips and tilting his head in a little almost curtsy. The man grinned goatishly.

“In that case it’s my duty to sully you up.”

“Better men than you have tried and failed,” Aziraphale returned, playing things up a bit by batting his eyes at the man, while taking another long swallow of wine to fortify himself. He did not want to be caught by the goat man. That would not end well, he was sure. So he would have to be remarkably quick on his feet.

He pushed himself away from the table a bit in preparation, and was distracted as the tart he’d decided to call Little Red, whose name was John or Jacob or Jones or somebody, perhaps Darcy? Was making his way back over to the sofa. Aziraphale could only see the back of it from where he was standing-- but he saw enough to recognize the shock of red hair on one arm and a very long black clad leg draping off the other. He pressed his lips together.

 Why Crowley was still here, he couldn’t say. This was not his kind of party and yet he lingered, almost as if he was waiting for something. That must be it. Or perhaps he was up to something. Though cast...up? Out? From hell, Crowly was still a demon and ohh, very wily. What could he be up to chatting to Little Red? What could they be speaking of? The music was too loud to hear his voice distinctly and the boy did flush and smile as he shyly took the red cup from the demon’s hand.

“Gotcha!” said the goatish vicar, suddenly close by Aziraphale’s side, long arms opening.

“Hush,” Aziraphale said, flicking his fingers so the man was miracled back in the direction he came from, stumbling toward the flock of vicars and tarts who laughed and scattered like pigeons. For his own part, he moved a bit closer to where Crowley was lying. It was strange, watching him like this. Watching from afar almost. Clandestinely. He felt a certain chilly loneliness he couldn’t quite place. Nothing overwhelming or over dramatic, certainly, but that a little cold shard was settled near his heart. Perhaps it was because, usually when they were out together as themselves, they usually engaged with one another solely. It was like the bastion of like minds and shared experiences in the sea of humanity.

 But now, Crowley probably wasn’t even aware he was watching. Almost as if Aziraphale didn’t exist in this space. Which was absolutely ridiculous, of course, and he was being entirely too maudlin about the whole thing. If he wanted Crowley’s attention, all he had to do was go up and touch him, or call across the room. He was half sure that if he raised his voice even just above a whisper, Crowley would hear it. He opened his mouth to do so, just to capture a millisecond of his time when the vicars and tarts laughed uproariously. Little Red laughed with them and said:

“You’re not going to play?”

“Not a chance in heaven.” Crowley’s voice, clear and agitated. Aziraphale shut his mouth again. That was right. Crowley was hugely embarrassed by all this. It was probably _humiliating_ by his standards and Aziraphale felt annoyed with himself for feeling humiliated along with him. Not of the vicars and tarts, who were having silly human fun, but of himself. That he should be above this. That this fun was beneath his dignity. It was what Gabriel would think certainly. Michael too. As if being light and free and giddy was something to be looked down on.

He went back to the wine table instead, not feeling quite as drunk as he wished. Though what he almost wished was to sneak out down that darkened corridor and pretend none of this had ever happened. Or, if not that, find a way to turn the hourglass of time so that he could redo this night and decide not to come--however much he was needed. Argyle was standing by the table now too and gave him a sympathetic smile, as if he understood somehow.

“That kind will never change,” Argyle said, gesturing with his cup to the sofa. “Better off leaving them at home.”

“Yes, well… Would that I could have.” He glanced at the sad little drinks table. He was tired of that petty little wine, but would like to get a great deal drunker. As he weighed the decision in his mind, he couldn’t help but notice Argyle shift to look down the darkened corridor. He watched the human’s expression turn into something sad but hopeful. Aziraphale poured himself another drink.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“No… yeah…just… Cec said he _might_ come ‘bout this time,” Argyle said. A faint, pained smile lifted his sad plump cheeks. “He’s a busy man, you know. Has lots of hobknobbing to do. And he’s like yours. Too dignified for this sort of silliness.”

“There’s absolutely _nothing_ wrong with it,” Aziraphale said, reminding them both as he took a sip of the terrible wine. Well perhaps a little something, he thought, as he watched the goatish vicar capture a tart and hold onto him a bit too long before letting him go, laughing.

“Makes me glad we’re pushing the youth center off,” Argyle muttered. “Can’t imagine it being funded by this.”

“Youth center?”

Argyle flushed to the tips of his ears.

“Ah, Cec made me promise not to bug you about it. But er… basically that’s what we initially thought we’d do. Make a kind of youth center for er…youths to come hang out at. Meet people like themselves. Get questions answered, that sort of thing. Counseling if they need it.”

“That sounds like a noble goal,” Aziraphale said. He was warmed by the simplicity of it. Oh a widows and orphans fund was needed, of course. But a club like this could better serve like minded youth. Even if things were _much_ better than they used to be, it couldn’t be easy for the young.

“That’s what I thought.” Argyle beamed and Aziraphale could feel the happiness of it rolling off him. “I was even gonna head it up and such like. Only… well…” He shrugged, the happiness fading as quickly as it came. “Cec said we had to build up a reputation first. Get really well known for doing lots of charities and then we could do anything we liked. And that I should keep my hands clear of it due to my connections. Whatever that means. But you can’t argue with Cec.”

“I most assuredly can!” Aziraphale said. This was also something he could do! And something he hadn’t done in quite some time! The fight for justice! For a greater cause! And one that he could believe in whole heartedly. Argyle tugged at his sleeve.

“Please don’t. I shouldn’t have told you. I promised I wouldn’t. He’d be cross if he knew I had.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, deflating just a little, the hopes of a good crusade flying away. It was quite a curious situation though. Why should connections matter in regard to charities? Unless Argyle had an exceedingly poor network, but doing common could should help uplift that reputation, shouldn’t it? And why did the Horse and Pony need a reputation boost to do charity anyway?

He was about to ask when the outside door closed, bringing in with it a swirl of cold air. Argyle’s face lit like a beacon and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel moved. Steady, measured footsteps moved down the suddenly illuminated corridor.

“That’ll be him,” Argyle said. “Can’t believe it. Good old Cec. You won’t tell him I spoke to you of you-know-what.”

“I won’t,” said Aziraphale. Argyle beamed at him and he couldn’t help but feel a little giddy himself as the footsteps drew nearer. A moment later a man filled the doorway, his face immediately smoothing into a smile. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, with a bit of a middle aged paunch-- but his eyes were clear and his smile warming. Aziraphale. He was dressed as a vicar, of course, and the black suited him. The silver horse shoe pin on his collar stood out brilliantly.

A cheer went up around the room. Most cried out Cecil. One or two said Mr. Waterburn. Argyle murmured: ‘Cec’, in a warm melting way. Cecil waved a to them all and then smiled at Aziraphale.

“You must be Mr. Fell,” Cecil Waterburn said, holding out his hands which Aziraphale took without thinking. “Or should I call you Angel? Because you’re certainly saving us.”

“Just Mr. Fell will be fine. ” But oh, his face heated at the compliment. Could it be that this accounting position was worth more than he thought? Could it be they had actual use of him? Actual _need_? Waterburn seemed to think so. He gave a charming dimpled grin.

“Mr. Fell then.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s ands with the gentle warmth of friendship. “As you’re not surprised, I’m assuming Argyle informed you?”

“I did, Cec,” said Argyle, a bit frantically, fairly pressing against Aziraphale’s shoulder as if wanting to be noticed by the taller man. “Just as we discussed.” There was such open adoration in Argyle’s face that Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him-- especially since Cecil Waterburn gave him only a brief acknowledging smile before offering his arm.

“In that case, can I drop a private word or two in your ear before I lose you to the festivities? I’ll return a soon as I can, I promise,” he added to the groans of the others.

“I’d be delighted,” Aziraphale said, taking his arm. It felt grand somehow, like when dear Oscar had noticed him again that night-- despite his, well, somewhat out of fashion at the time clothes, and had invited him to a little tête-à-tête in his favorite club. It had been a lovely evening of stories and brandy and one of Aziraphale’s treasured memories.

This wasn’t much the same. There wasn’t the same strange feeling of potential, like an ember burning in his stomach. No, this was more sharp and edged, like the start of something entirely new. Look at him! Starting a new thing and without the nudge of forty plus years of progress! He couldn’t help but be proud, and proud of how accepting he was of it.

They were in the corridor now, the portraits of good old lads of Horse and Pony yore beaming at them.

“It’s exclusive, this hallway. Only for members who have gone above and beyond contributing to the club’s well being can have their picture here,” said Cecil.

“Oh really?” That was a change. Usually they just hung up whomever had been there more than a certain number of years. Two he thought the last time he was there. He wasn’t sure how happy he was with the sudden exclusivity.

“I could see yours hanging up there,” Cecil continued.

“I couldn’t possibly accept such an honor.” An Angel wasn’t supposed to have a picture anywhere. Head Office really had come down on that. It was one thing for a human artist to give a glorious interpretation of you, but to willingly give a picture-- a photograph where comparisons could be made. It just raised too many questions. Only now, he supposed, he could! He thought with a burst of subversive glee. They couldn’t stop him. They wouldn’t even know. And he had nothing else to lose.

Nothing else at all.

He tried not to examine that thought too closely and was glad when Cecil lead him into a room that had used to be a small sitting room and had since been turned into an office. It was distracting to see all the changes. The lamps and the comfy little sofas gone replaced by an ornate desk and bookshelves. Books meant to impress only Aziraphale couldn’t help but note. There were leather bound volumes exclusively, some with better craftsmanship than others, but nothing older than the 1970s at best guess. It was the office of a person who knew what books signified but didn’t care for them much himself. And that was fine. Many people were worse with books and there was nothing precious being maltreated in this somewhat damp atmosphere.

“Scotch?” Cecil asked, holding out a heavy crystal tumbler.

“Please,” said Aziraphale, because _that_ at least looked quality. He took his tumbler of Scotch from Waterburn’s hand, admiring the light amber color. It had a good smell, too. Crème brûlée with the tiniest hint of something deliciously citrus. He took the tiniest sip, allowing himself just a taste before swallowing and getting just a hint of vanilla before the alcohol warmed his blood.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” said Cecil.

“One must give quality its due,” Aziraphale said, feeling his face heat a little as he was caught out. But Cecil only smiled and lead him out to the small attached balcony.

 It was a beautiful night. Chilly, yes, but nothing the Scotch couldn’t fend off. The lights of the city twinkled in the distance, and down below, the street lights slipped against the profile of a lovely black Bentley, parked on the other side of the road. That mad old thing, Aziraphale thought with a fond smile. It gave him a heart attack nearly every time he was in it and yet he climbed in it again and again.

“I knew when I read your dazzling essay that you were the right one for us,” said Cecil Waterburn said, pulling him from his thoughts. Aziraphale straightened and looked away from the car to focus on the man. “We’re a small club, but we have ambition! Drive! And when I looked at your essay I thought, there is a man who can help us succeed!”

“I’m surprised it was so moving.” He’d written about the Horse and Pony Club only briefly. Mostly he’d talked about his bookshop and discussed his circle of acquaintances in and around Soho. There had been no one very important. In fact, he could remember thinking that it had all sounded terribly lonely.

“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Fell. It was as poignant as it was beautiful,” said Cecil. The man’s heavy arm slipped around his shoulder. A ruby set with small diamonds gleamed dully red on his well manicured index finger. Everything about him spoke of wealth. “Bigger dreams for this club I mean. For us.” He said the word smoothly, squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder as if it was just the two of them in this bid for destiny. “To really propel us into the stratosphere! But I need you. Your mind. Your skill. Your discretion most importantly. It will take a lot of fine tuned politics to even get this club in the position where it can do some good… Things might look a bit strange at first. But that’s why I need you to trust me. To help us. To make this place… _more._ Can I count on you? Will you help us?”

And here it was. The ultimate question. Aziraphale shouldn’t agree to it. He had no place among humans and certainly not as a permanent fixture. But why not? He could do good here. He could _be_ good here. Do something worthwhile, and at his own pace and discretion. He didn’t even have to come to the club so long as he kept the books balanced and, moreover he’d have a _place_.

“Yes,” he said, then laughed a bit nervously at his own impulsivity. “Yes, I believe I shall.”

Cecil said nothing.

“Er… I said…” Aziraphale trailed off as he glanced at the man and realized he was frozen. Not even blinking. There was the faint sound of movement from the room behind them.

“He wants to use you, Angel.” Crowley’s voice was rough and sad. It was the tone that struck him more than anything, so rarely heard. Of course he would have believed him no matter what he sounded like, but here there was hardly anything to fight against. Hardly any hope to hold on to that he meant anything other than something serious. Still, Aziraphale tried to smile.

“How do you mean?”

“He’s just some jackass MP trying to make it big. Wanted a surefire way to embezzle thousands of pounds without getting caught and needed an idiot to be the fall guy in case something went wrong.”

Aziraphale winced at the word idiot, wishing he hadn’t used that word. Though, right now, it felt accurate.  
  
“You…seem to know so much about it,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice light, as if this was some casual conversation they were having. As if it didn’t hurt. There was no point in letting it hurt, was there? This was going to be a foregone conclusion, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if he’d ever find a place here and really he didn’t even _want_ a place here. Just a place somewhere.

“Yeah….” Crowley’s voice was still rough and sad and Aziraphale wished he’d stop. Wished this whole _evening_ would stop,  just for a moment so he could collect himself.

“I was just finishing up a temptation,’” Crowley continued. “I had no idea you’d get mixed up in it. I didn’t think it would even _touch_ you. If I thought it would have come anywhere near you, I’d’ve told him to sod off….”

“Oh…well…never mind…”

It was probably for the best, after all. In fact he should be grateful for the experience. In fact he was! It had taught him several valuable things. One of which was reinforcing the idea or an Angel’s Inherent Separation From Humanity.

They ran a seminar on it every hundred years or so. Don’t get too close. Don’t feel too much. Use blessings sparingly. It was essential for their job function. After all, they weren’t created to save humanity, but to serve it according to the Great Plan and guide them toward the path of Right, with perhaps a push! But not dragging them along by the headstall.

He had certainly gotten too close. Gotten too many things into his head that should not be there. Wanted to participate in the every day goings on of humanity that he had no right doing, for very selfish reasons, he might add, and--

“You _could_ still do it, you know,” Crowley said, voice low, breaking into his thoughts. Aziraphale could hear him pacing closer. Could feel the demon’s warmth against his back, his breath slipping hot over his ear. “Let him think he’s getting his way, but make sure it’s done right. Giving the funds to where they belong. You could make this place famous. They’d love you. You’d always belong right here.”

He closed his eyes. It was a wonderful thought. A delicious thought. A dream better than any food he ever tasted. He could do good for this club. Good for the world. And he knew they would love him. Maybe not know him. Who could really? What human could understand? And even more, he’d have a place to go. A place to be. Somewhere to fit in, even if it was behind the scenes or holding the strings to make the puppets dance.

“I could help you, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered.

He shivered under the weight of Waterburn’s arm, thrills racing down his arms and the length of his spine. That was an even more heady thought. Of them working together, joined again, an Arrangement, no more uncertainty, no more wondering, wishing… He had a faint vision of making an organization so big they could disappear into it, linger just as they were with no one the wiser.

He wondered if Crowley wanted it too. He could feel the demon leaning down, the whisper of his breath more insistent against the back of his ear, down his neck. There was the faintest brush of skin against the ridge of his ear. He wanted to turn into it. To shrug off Waterburn’s arm and turn, wrapping his arms around the demon’s neck and pull him down, mouth to mouth, breath to breath.

He wanted to say yes to this idea. To be the masters in the shadows. He wanted it so much he nearly said it. Nearly did it. When the demon’s hand stroked against his waist, just under his ribs, he nearly took it.

But… even as he imagined, dreamed… _hoped,_ Argyle lingered in the back of his mind, smiling in his sad, round faced way. He was a single, simple human with a single simple desire to help others, young people, who needed somewhere to go. Who needed community, perhaps even family. Who found it hard to rise his head against those with a strong presence. Even to rise against love. Aziraphale could give him anything he wanted. Everything.

And Argyle would be thankful and pleased, would love him and fade even more. His true potential, his true choice, would be taken from him. No one would care if he made the right decision, he knew. Neither Heaven nor Hell and as for Argyle, he wouldn’t even know. But _he_ would care nevertheless. Even if no one else did. Even if it annoyed his only friend to heaven and back. He would make the right decision no matter what it cost.

“No,” Aziraphale said.

A faint annoyed hiss tickled his ear and he smiled a little himself, dropping his hand to touch briefly the one on his side, then gently brushing it away.

“No,” he repeated, but softer. “But, thank you.”

“You’re just going to be miserable, you idiot,” Crowley muttered.

“I’d be miserable either way.” And he would be. It wouldn’t be enough, that kind of manufactured love. He would either go on with it… Or the more frightening thought, he’d want more. After all, if he bent the rules for this, why not for that? Why should there be any rules? He was the First Child of God and there was little he could not do to satisfy his desire.

But he was not that person, and would never be that person. Even if he had to spend an eternity of wandering and silence.

“I don't-- Why are you always like this?” Crowley said, sounding frustrated. “You could have anything. _Anything_. Why don’t you just let yourself _have_ something for once?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. The fact was he _did_ let himself have things. He quite overindulged, in fact. He could and should resist the temptation for more. He should be content. Anyway he didn't want to fight about it. Right now, all he wanted to do was to get away from this human and this night and go back to-- well-- lonely monotony but at least it was something he _had_ earned.

Still, he thought, finishing his Scotch with a single gulp. Even if he couldn’t and wouldn’t shape this club’s future, he wasn’t going to let it go to hell either. Nor was he just going to leave with his tail between his legs. He was still an Angel, even if not in an official capacity. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and was ready.

“Let him go, please. And give us a little space if you would.” 

“Ugh.” Crowley said. “ _Fine_.” The warmth was gone from his back and he missed it already. He listened as the demon walked across the balcony and then turned his attention at soft snap of his fingers. Waterburn stirred against him.

“Well, Mr. Fell?” Waterburn said. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale ducked under his arm and turned to face him, hands folded in front of him. He was human, fragile, short lived, and an utter bastard. And yet still, he had the capacity for change. To do good.

“I think that you have a choice to make,” Aziraphale said.  “You can either stay here, indulge in this club, love them as they love you. You can forget your plans and work with them to make their youth center. You can learn to love where you are.” He reached up and tapped the horse shoe pin still gleaming silver in the man’s collar.

Waterburn’s eyes narrowed, though he seemed to fight against it, and a smile pinched at the corners of the human’s mouth.

“Or you can leave this club alone and never darken its door again. The choice is yours,” Aziraphale continued, resting a hand on the human’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Either way, I’d strongly suggest discontinuing your plans.”

“What are you talking about?” Waterburn said, chuckling. It was a bladed, edged sound. He tried to brush Aziraphale’s hand away, then tried a little harder, sweat beading his temples. Aziraphale kept his hand just where it was, grip firm, but gentle.

“I think we both know what I’m talking about,” he replied. The charm seeped out of Waterburn’s face, replaced by something cold and angry. Aziraphale held his gaze. “Consider it. Consider letting go. Of living in a world you can hold your head up in. Because I will warn you now, whatever you decide, if you use this little club for your own personal greed, it will not end well for you. This place is watched over by a higher power.”

“You?” Waterburn practically snarled. “Who the hell do you think _you_ are?”

Oh, now there was another temptation, all neatly wrapped up in front of him. Aziraphale could merely let him guess and come to his own conclusion. If he’d learned anything from Crowley, it was that paranoid humans were their own worst enemies. It could be he’d spend so much time looking over his shoulder that his dirty deeds would fall by the wayside --too risky to be found out.

He could even tell him who and what he was, and hope that the strength of his hand and eyes would be enough to dissuade him.

He shouldn't by any means Manifest. It was always frowned upon unless ordered. Any circumstances thereof would require weeks explaining oneself in accounts, not to mention being lectured by superiors. And the paperwork! Only requisitioning a new body produced more, and then only by a slim margin. Why, think of the chaos that would happen if a free agent were to Manifest with no consequences whatever?

Aziraphale smiled.

The night glowed with him, his own radiant light, shining off the windows and the railing, above and below and around. His wings were free and spreading. Effervescent joy filled him and he felt, if he spoke, someone very far away and very missed would listen.

“I am Guardian, companion for the lonely, succor for the heart sore-- and most importantly--” He leaned forward. “The patron of this beautiful club. Now, _shoo_.”

Waterburn shoo’d, scrambling as fast as he could back into the room and letting out a short sharp scream before diving through the door and slamming it behind him.  
  
Ahh, that felt _good_.

He felt good.

Better than he had in a while.

It was one thing letting your wings loose in the middle of a war zone when you are sure you’re going to die, quite another to bring yourself  into your full God Given Glory to scare the literal hell out of a human.

“Proud of yourself?” Crowley said from somewhere in the shadows.

“Exceedingly.” He flexed his wings, beaming at the demon. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good job.” There was sarcasm there but he had the feeling that Crowley meant it. “Now turn off before upstairs decides you’re worth the risk.”

Yes, he better had. No good would come with annoying them  _too_ much. Aziraphale focused a moment, pulling himself back into himself, rather like stuffing a large coat into a full wardrobe. His feet seemed to settle on the floor. The night around him. The chill returned against the radiating warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” he said, wanting to say it, needing to say it, now seeing him clearly lurking by the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“For what?” Crowley said, seeming taken aback. Aziraphale thought.

“You know, I have no idea. Doesn’t matter. Thank you anyway.” He hummed as he went into the room, noticing Crowley sliding out of the way as he helped himself to some of Waterburn’s wonderful Scotch.

“Can I tempt you?”

“You being like that it’ll probably burn my lips off.” But he drew in a curious shuddering breath. Aziraphale regarded him, wondering at it, but then Crowley turned his head sharply and hissed: “Someone’s coming.”

A moment later there was a tentative knock on the door.

“Is… everything alright in there?” It was Argyle. Crowley looked at him, eyebrows raised. Aziraphale drained the rest of the Scotch, barely feeling the alcohol with all the glorious heat flooding his veins, and went to the door.

“Angel, wait--” Crowley stared, but he had already opened the door. Argyle blinked at him as if surprised. Aziraphale had to double check to make sure his light was off. It was, but he noticed the black vicar’s outfit had turned pure white. Oopsy daisy.

Well, he knew humanity enough to know that if he didn’t mention it, neither would Argyle, though the man clearly seemed to want to.

“Everything is just fine,” Aziraphale said in answer to his question. Argyle blinked and startled, as if he’d forgotten what he’d asked.

“Oh, right. Good. I just thought I heard… Well… I thought I heard Cec.”

“Unfortunately he had to leave in a hurry,” Aziraphale said. “Probably late for some sort of appointment.”

Argyle’s face fell. His entire body seemed to slump at once and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, gentle, hoping to give him comfort.

“You can do better than him,” Aziraphale said. “You are better than him.”

“Who me? Nah…”

“Yes, you.” He gave Argyle’s shoulder a little shake. “You are a good man and a welcoming one. That counts for much in this world, even though it might seem otherwise. You have a great love for this club and a great ambition to help others. That is worth more than anything Cecil Waterburn can offer.”

Argyle smiled a little, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, thanks,” he said. It was a hard thing, Aziraphale knew, to believe in yourself and your own worth. Harder still to think less of a person you loved, especially if you think they hung the stars-- especially if they had, he thought, with a bittersweet smile of his own. Though in his case he was definitely worth far less than even this simple human.

The man looked pensively toward the front door, then shored himself up and smiled.

“You coming back to the party? We’re going to have the finale in a minute.”

“I’ll be along in a moment,” Aziraphale said, touched to be invited back. Argyle opened his mouth, then blinked at something past Aziraphale and grinned.

“Right. Well.  No need to rush on my account. Have a good night, gents.” He waved and went back the way he had come, moving down the corridor, the good old lads seeming to smile at him as he went. Another portrait to hang up one day, Aziraphale thought. He would see to it.

He closed the door, leaning against it and watched Crowley watching him. The demon was leaning against the far wall, arms folded.

“He thinks we’re going to shag, you know.”

“Maybe we should,” Aziraphale said, still feeling cheeky from it all. Crowley choked and Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “I was _joking_. Your expression--!”

He scowled in answer and Aziraphale felt a little bad about it considering everything. He gave Crowley an apologetic smile, then perched himself on the edge of the desk, patting it lightly. “Come on, pour me a drink and sit with me. That Scotch is too lovely to drink alone.”

“I should drink it all myself,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale smiled, knowing he wouldn’t. He gave Crowley his empty tumbler and thanked him when he returned it a few moments later. The demon set the decanter of Scotch between them and hopped up on the desk himself.

“To a very strange night,” Aziraphale said, lifting his glass.

“Cheers.” The crystal clinked, chiming softly. He watched Crowley drink and the movement of his throat; looking away before he was caught. It was nice to sit in this quiet. The remnants of the party felt far away. It was just them in a little world of their own, looking out onto the balcony and the faint smudging of stars beyond. It seemed like it would rain tonight.

“Think you’ll stay?” Crowley asked after a moment. Aziraphale drank and thought about it. Would he?

“Maybe for a little while.” It seemed like a bad idea to cut and run, though he knew  it would be a worse idea to linger. “Too long and I’ll just be another Waterburn.” Perhaps he was flattering himself to think Argyle would look on him so highly, but the man seemed desperately lonely. It was as if he was adrift in life, looking for someone to tell him what to do. What a sad prospect.

“You could never be like him,” Crowley said.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale leaned in slightly to bump the other’s arm with his own. It was a nice thing to say and he wished he could believe it. There was a fine line between them after all and both of them had been sedu-- _tempted_ by a demon. Only he’d had enough practice to say no.

He hoped he still had that temerity years down the line.

Only, now that he thought of it...

“If you knew what he was up to, why didn’t you tell me before?” There had certainly been enough time, especially for someone like Crowley. The demon shrugged, filled his tumbler, and then set it on the edge of the desk, turning it between his fingers.

“I guess I just hoped it would work out somehow. That you actually had a shot here. That he wouldn’t be that much of a bastard.”

“You have a lot of hope for a demon,” Aziraphale said, lightly teasing. Crowley saluted him with his glass.

“You have a lot of balls for an angel.”

Aziraphale knew he probably shouldn’t feel so pleased at the compliment, but he couldn’t help but take pride in it. After all there was nothing wrong with --er-- having balls. With standing up to the courage of your conviction. In fact it was usually quite difficult and while he wasn’t sure whether resisting temptation was a sign of balls or not, he’d take it as a compliment on that too.

“Oh you never know what I’m capable of,” Aziraphale said. “This for instance.” And he plucked the tumbler deftly from Crowley’s fingers. He sipped his stolen drink cheerfully, daring the demon to do something about it.

“See, now I have to steal it back,” Crowley said in a low voice.

“Then it’s my duty as an angel to save you from that vice,” Aziraphale said, swallowing it all in two gulps. It was a bit too much at once and his head spun a little. Or maybe that was because Crowley was leaning in, hand splayed on the desk, nudging the decanter to the side. They seemed closer now, almost too close.

“Nah, you’ve just created a new one.”  Crowley reached up and he felt the demon’s thumb brush hot at the corner of his mouth. Lord help him it was dangerous. This was dangerous. He’d had too much liquor and the heat was a warm haze inside his head. For the third time that night he wanted to lean in, to press in, to touch and taste. Even just to turn his head and graze his teeth over the line of Crowley’s thumb, to see what he would do. The thought singed hot through him and for a moment he was almost lost.

 But no, not now. Not here. Not like this.

“I’ll have to work on that one too,” he murmured, lightly pushing his wrist down. Crowley’s fingers curled and he made a noise in the back of his throat. Aziraphale apologized silently. Sorry that he couldn’t do more. That he couldn’t be more.

“Angel, I want to be worthy of you.”

“What?” The words struck him oddly. It seemed out of character for him. Or rather seeing something so integral to his nature laid open… a vulnerability it was difficult to look at. Difficult to hear. As if he was speaking without wanting to, forcing the words into existence.

“I want to give you anything you need. Anything you want.”

“Crowley…”  He wanted him to stop. It was getting a bit much. He didn’t want to be this person. He didn’t want this kind of change in their relationship, whatever it was.  But now Crowley was on the floor, standing almost between his legs, dark and lithe and close.

“Teach me what to do. Tell me how to be.” His glasses were off, perched on his head. Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eyes. “Sanctify me.” It was in a near whisper. Another temptation, he knew, unconscious though it was. In the past he would have loved nothing more than to purify a demon, this one in particular. To lift him up so his wings were resplendent and white, to fill his eyes with joy and his heart with love. But the love of angels was chilly and cold. Even his own except when it came to food or the fine things in life.

 Crowley still had the knack somehow, buried deep. Still had the capacity for caring. True he was still a demon and did many things that Aziraphale didn’t approve of, but he did so much more that he couldn’t help but admire and there was such potential in him, such ability to change. He was so vibrant it was almost human, as if he’d somehow transcended the boundary and become something new.

And yet here he was asking him-- wanting him in a way that, perhaps he shouldn’t. There was nothing good that could come from this development he was sure. If only there was only someone else for him. Anyone else.

Still, he had to answer. He couldn’t leave Crowley hanging watching his hands curl themselves into fists against the desk. The answer would not make him happier.

He stroked the back of that short red hair, impossibly soft, feeling the shuddering breath against his face, then pulled him gently down and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“There is nothing I would ever change about you, my dear,” he murmured, knowing even as he said it that it wouldn’t be enough. “Nothing in the world.”


	4. Nothing but the...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has two things on his mind, vengeance and trying very hard not to feel anything about Aziraphale. All he has to do to is to keep it together and to not fuck everything up. Both of those things are harder than they look.

A few weeks later in the last few crawling days of September, attempts at sleep thwarted, plants terrified and fish contemplating revolution, a shining opportunity too good to ignore had forced Crowley to go brood outside of the flat. And so he’d parked himself at the coveted window seat in _La Derni_ _ère Heure_ to wait for Waterburn. This was that asshole’s favorite place, or so some gossip rag had said. He came here every day to drink coffee and hob knob with the elite. Elite. Crowley snorted. Even the bottom of a high class barrel was still the bottom. It was a pretentious place, full of ironic hipsters, snobs, posers of the rising middle class and the occasional slumming asshole politician that wanted to be seen “hob knobbing”. No doubt someone’s knob was being hobbed.

Anyway, Crowley didn’t know what he was going to do exactly when Waterburn arrived, other than make him regret ever going into politics and maybe being born depending on Crowley’s mood. He didn’t _need_ to do it, he knew. It wasn’t really necessary. If Waterburn wasn’t pissing himself after being told off by a fucking angel, there was no help for him. Not that Crowley wanted to help. Wanted to do the opposite really. And at the end of the day, this was so _he_ _’d_ feel a little better.

In the mean time, Crowley had been sitting here for a few hours, nurturing his general dislike of the place into a full blown loathing that crawled between the crevices of his spine…just so when Waterburn did arrive, he’d be able to twist in the knife with _relish_.

Fortunately for him, there was a lot to hate about this scummy little place. He hated the decor, stark white with gold knickknacks for accent color and Fleur-de-Lys fucking everywhere. He hated the waitstaff with their grim faces and gold bow ties. He hated the clientele, either soft and pampered and effecting an air of stiff shouldered nonchalance to the group of hipsters, or the hipsters that dressed in white and black to clash and pretend that their nonchalance of the setting was ironic and didn’t have an expression they didn’t want to selfie. He hated the music, which was just Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing on loop, just loud enough to seep into the consciousness and slowly strangle the will to live out of it. But most of all he hated the black clad, ginger idiot of a demon that glowered back at him from the watery reflection on the window.

And since he was here, he also hated the rain outside, the temperature inside, the lighting just to be safe and the fact that it was fucking Tuesday again. It was a good hate, too. A heated, sinking thing, that dug down roots deep into his gut, pulling up bile and making heat spark through his veins. Made him want to _do_ something.

Crowley took a moment to wave over a waiter, watched the manager come up to him instead, all puffed up like a pissed off bird.

“Gimmie another round,” he said, nudging the eggshell thin, bone-white cup in her direction. Several people looked their way, judgmental eyes full of anticipation. She seemed to puff even more, opening her mouth in indignation and Crowley waved a hundred pound note in her direction.

“Right away, sir,” she said with a pleated smile, snatching the note from his fingers and tucking it into her slacks with impressive speed. “Is there anything else I can do for you.”

“Naaaah, think I’m good.” He took another plug of the Jack Daniels that he’d set ostentatiously on the table. Just like that, the level of collective tarnish rose around the room. If he closed his eyes he could smell it. It was a heady bouquet of greed, irritation and envy with a particularly piquant undertone of lust coming from some corner of the room. The manager trod off, her shoes squeaking once more against the linoleum making even the hipsters twinge. Crowley watched her try to subtly change her stride, walk slowly, speed up, but no matter what she did, he squeak remained.

It was fucking craftsmanship really. Not that the barely-upstairs crowd would know anything about it. They chipped and wore at a handful of souls for years. He’d done years worth of work in two hours and he hadn’t even been trying hard. But maybe he shouldn’t have even tried to begin with, he thought, sitting back and glowering at his reflection. Trying always pissed him off in the end, got him shafted. Like that fucking pointless business with Caligula.

That was a human to learn from, he thought with a wave of revulsion. He hadn’t even realized orgies could be applied to violence as well as lust; but call him educated after that mess. Yeah, not trying was really the trick. Had to be. Other demons just did as they were told, what they’d always done, and were satisfied. They didn’t succeed with one human or another? That was the other side for you. Yeah, well, and _punishment_ depending on what mood Beelzebub was in that day. So you’d better fucking pray to Satan that zhe wasn’t itching to pin someones ears to their arse. Succeed? Hey, congratulations, another denizen to swell the infernal choir, here’s you half a glass of sludgy champagne and get back to work.

“Cheers.” He saluted downstairs with the bottle and took a drink. Puffy bird squeaked back, smile tighter around the corners, and set the coffee cup at his elbow.

“How long will you be planning to stay with us, _Monsieur_?”

Crowley debated telling her that her accent was so bad that even the provincials would stick up their noses at it but then decided, nah.

“No idea. Sod off.” He flicked a fifty pounder at her now and poured half the coffee into a plastic plant beside his table to make room for the whiskey. Her mouth worked, closed though it was, as if she was fiercely chewing on whatever words she wanted to say. Then she smiled tight enough he swore he could hear her teeth straining.

“Let me know if you’ll need anything else.”

He didn’t bother to answer, refilled his cup and glared once more at the wet day outside. Inside, Vivaldi came to a stop to a soft collective sigh of relief. Crowley clicked his fingers so it began again and the answering groan sent a spike of pleased irritation through his breastbone.

Anyway, he couldn’t really call himself better than the other idiots down there. They at least knew their place. They at least knew and understood evil was evil was evil. Let someone else bother about broader implications and far reaching consequences. It was none of their damned business. And sure, they suffered eternal low-grade torture, comparatively speaking, in the pits of the filing office but they knew what they were doing for the next eternity. He had no idea. He didn’t even have the faintest fucking clue. The lack of an end point was twisting through his throat like barbed wire. Yeah, he could tarnish a bloody stadium without even trying but why? No commendations. No perks. No buying himself a little more time on this fucking mud ball.

Still it wasn’t as if he was _completely_ clueless, to give himself some undeserved credit and to lift his own spirits before he drowned in them. He had a _broad_ idea of what he wanted to do. Take in shows whenever he wanted, visit clubs, go and do whatever he damn well felt like whenever he pleased. And also, apparently, throw himself at the feet of fussy angels like a Winsome Lass begging and quivering for some Manly Scot’s Lance.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, then hated himself even more for the pun. That had been the worst part of it of that whole…situation. The angel’s polite refusal. The forehead kiss like Crowley was some kind of penitent sinner that needed the padre’s blessing. He scowled in the general direction of his forehead. There had still been enough residual grace to make the kiss burn, not badly, but enough so that it had seared him through and through and made his toes curl in his shoes even as disgust curled through the rest of him.

Then it was drop the angel off and toodle-oo I’ll call you-- again. And if that hadn’t been a kick in the arse enough, he’d gotten back to the flat to notice his forehead glowing with the impression of the big stupid kiss. The skin around those glowing lips had reddened and blistered in protest, but the lips themselves had remained for days keeping him from going anywhere after dark unless he wore a baseball cap like an idiot.

It was his fault for assuming. His fault for misreading. His fault for being so damn tickled at the thought of an angel giving away the stupid sword, he hadn’t been able to leave it alone because he was so damn curious about what else Aziraphale would do. Didn’t help that the world kept throwing them together anyway. Bound to happen really since they were both on Earth the majority of the time. Honestly, he’d told himself he was done with heaven and the whole fucking business _including_ Aziraphale after that poor kid got crucified. He’d decided just to do his demonic business even if it was downright depressing how much worse humans did to their own kind without him even _being_ there. He’d almost decided to stop giving a shit. To grow that callous that he should have made when he was trying to shake burning brimstone from his wings. But then there Aziraphale was out of the blue, tempting him to oysters and then walking that back like the charming idiot he was.

And he _was_ an idiot, Crowley thought, trying to mentally shake this into himself. Aziraphale was fussy and old-fashioned and particular, kind of like one of those old odd uncles that humans talked about avoiding at parties. His sense of style was a joke and they looked like a Humorous Set of Salt and Pepper Shakers you’d find at a thrift shop whenever they went out together.

 _If_ he were to be with anyone, using _with_ in the very loosest sense of the word, because he wasn’t a _with_ kind of person- it should be someone like the woman that just came in, shaking chill rain from her dark hair as if she didn’t care who it splattered on. She was dressed in all black too with six inch heels and a short leather jacket and sunglasses. The curl of her lip said she was just as happy to be here as him. He watched her find and stalk off in the direction of the hipsters, which was a mark both for and against her and reaffirmed to himself that was the ideal.

Not that he wanted to be _with_ her in any sense of the word. She was fully human and while inspiring lust was good filthy fun, the thought of following through gave him a whole body shudder. But they would _look_ good together. He could see her coming out of the Bentley with as much smooth grace. Could see them walking side by side, feeling the envy rise around them like a tide. The expression on people’s faces would be more akin to: there go two badasses, or, better not mess with them. When usually it was more like; that poor bastard. Not that Aziraphale didn’t inspire his own lust and envy, but together they just canceled each other out.

Story of their lives, Crowley thought with a snort, waving the coffee cup without looking until he heard the annoyed squeaks on approach. He shoved it at her without paying for it this time, daring her to complain by giving her a sardonic look, and watched her puff up as she squeaked off. This would be his last round, he knew, no matter how much money he threw at her. Fortunately for her-- He checked his watch, then blinked an squinted at it with one eye, he only had about ten minutes left. Fifteen on the outside.

He let his sleeve drop and chugged from the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Now where was he?

Oh right, Aziraphale being soft and round and fussy and out of date and Crowley wasn’t at all interested in him. Didn’t need to be with him outside of their…their friendship? Was that the level they were at? Even after everything? Who the heaven knew, and who the heaven cared. That was all they were and he didn’t want anything else because they looked terrible together and Aziraphale was frankly just embarrassing most of the time. What with his silly magic tricks and silly bookshop and silly giggle and the way he’d walked into hell, bold as balls, for Crowley’s sake to survive whatever they had in store, and the way he struggled so hard to be good, and how he was such a picky bastard while at the same time being so soft, and the way his pale blue eyes could burn with fury or crinkle with delight, or the way he got himself nearly discorporated over the stupidest things. Fucking crepes! Or the way he _had_ gotten discorporated and Crowley had seen his beloved shop in fiery ruin and knew that he’d never see his face again or hear his voice or watch his expression as he fought against whatever temptation Crowley offered that he wanted so very much.

How fucking scared Crowley been then. How fucking hopeless he’d felt. For a moment in that bleak hell that was more terrifying than any real hell could offer, he had thought to let the Apocalypse consume him because what was the bloody point?

And then in the aftermath of it all…when they’d gotten on the bus and Aziraphale had just…taken his hand. Just like that. They’d sat there, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the hum of the engine… He had forgotten how to breathe. Forgotten how to be. If the prospect of their respective sides’ revenge hadn’t weighed heavily on his mind he was sure something else might have happened.

 And the thought of living with him. What a _thought._ Sure, Crowley had been apprehensive at first, but then Aziraphale had stepped over the threshold and looked around, hands in front of him-- the first time he’d ever stepped foot in any of Crowley’s homes and it had just-- Something had just-- _changed_. The flat had felt _significant_ somehow. Filled with a kind of ambient light that was felt rather than seen. The angel’s presence had flowed through the place, filling the empty halls, caressing every room. Even the plants had stopped rustling as if to listen, as if to feel. He had too. Aziraphale had said it was quite charming about three times out of nerves, and Crowley had only grunted because it hadn’t been in him to speak.

There had been the unspoken question of how Aziraphale was going to fit. There had been the unspoken question of where he would store what new books he bought, or where he would find a personal space. The unspoken question of music, while Crowley fought the urge to hide parts of his collection he didn’t even want the angel _glancing_ at. He remembered having been filled with an almost hunger he didn’t understand. Not of sex, he knew that much. Not even of touching. Nor of speaking. But just… _being_. Existing in the same place. He remembered being embarrassed by circling him like a fucking shark in whatever room he walked into, unable to stop himself, wanting to take it all in, to catch the strange new nuance to his scent, to watch him look at things and to tenderly fondle the deep green leaf of a plant and call it beautiful in a reverent tone. Crowley had wanted to melt into the floor but had said something like:

‘It better if it knows what’s good for it.’

And Aziraphale had clicked his tongue and called him horrible in a light chiding way that had made him want to fly and continue to be horrible just so he’d hear it again.

“That sssshipsss sssailed.” And good fucking riddance too, he told himself. It was good this way. Better without him. Less embarrassing. Meet for lunch once in a while or dinner or take in a show or something but that was it. All he had to do. _Maybe_ stop by for a chat if he was completely sodding bored.

But actually why?

Maybe he should pull up stakes and move for a bit. Get out. Get elsewhere. Well maybe leave the stakes right where they were just in case, but go somewhere. Venice maybe. Naples. Yerevan was supposed to be great this time of year. Or he could just do the easy way and go State side. Yeah. Set up in Las Vegas or California or Utah somewhere. He didn’t know. Aziraphale wouldn’t miss him. He wouldn’t miss Aziraphale. And then after a decade or three he’d have sorted his stupid self out and come back to pick up where they left off.

Yeah… He chugged the bottle down to the dregs in resolution. Then chugged his mostly whiskey coffee for good measure. He was gone, baby. As of this moment. So gone. Off to-- the land of the -- of the greasy food and shit. Bald Eagles and…really poor decisions. He was gone and not coming back until he could look at Aziraphale and tell him that…that he gave not one single solitary shit about how softly pink his lips were.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice hissed over him and Crowley blinked up at Wat…Whater… The stupid MP who had hurt Aziraphale’s feelings. Wanker.

Oh…yeah… Crowley was supposed to be annoying him or …giving him boils or whatever. Fuck, he’d been caught completely unprepared.

“No wait… go out and come back in again. Got to do it right.” He’d meant to make him do it but he must not have put enough will into it, or was maybe too damn drunk, because the man slid in right opposite him, filling the space with his cheap cologne.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Waterburn growled in a hushed voice. “But that stunt at the Horse and Pony--”

“Ughhhh…” Crowley let his head loll back. That _name_. Why did they have to call it the Horse and fucking Pony. How could anyone take it seriously?

“--was absolutely in poor taste and I am not the least bit intimidated.”

“Wasn’t a stunt,” Crowley said, frowning at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and wishing he had more. He could _will_ himself more, but it just wasn’t the same. Always tasted just a little bit like sulfur to him no matter what he did.

“ _Please_.” Waterburn sat back, eyes narrowed. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Have to find it first,” Crowley said. He allowed himself a sloppy grin. He _could_ be sober. It wouldn’t be hard. But this guy deserved drunk no shits given him. Also a good swift slap upside the head.

“I don’t know what special effects you managed to rig up.”

“Sssspecial effects? You really are a moron.” He chuckled before shaking out the last few drops of he bottle into his mouth. “What part of that… d’you think? A projector? Or maybe we just had big _big_ …” He gestured, reached for a word, couldn’t find it. “…biggy wings tucked up under his shirt somewhere. Oh yeah. Sssure. Saw right through us.”

“Whatever you did.” Waterburn leaned in further, voice moving to a whisper. “Just know that if you keep following me. If you decide at any point to destroy me. I will _end_ you, Anthony J. Crowley. You _and_ that little club you’re so fond of.”

“Ohh no, I’m _terrified._ _”_ And he wasn’t. The guy knowing his name was no big deal. Wasn’t hard to find. Destroying the Horse and Pony was a little more of a threat, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He knew types like Waterburn and knew what they were afraid of.

“I think you ought to take me seriously,” said Waterburn. “Ask your Nanny Ashtoreth.”

Crowley leaned in too so they were practically nose to nose. “I _am_ Nanny Ashtoreth, you great knob.” And grinned as the human scowled. “I know everything about you too,” he said in her pitch, her light accent, watching as the color leeched from Waterburn’s face. “I know all your habits. Your little kinks. What you like to do when you think no one’s watching. What you want to do with stockings…” He waggled his tongue at the man. Satisfaction headier than whiskey went through him as the human’s eyes widened. “If you’re not careful, I’ll end _you._ ”

Waterburn jerked up, scowled at him a few moments and then charged through the door back the way he came, bells above it clanging violently. The room fell into a brittle silence. Even the hipsters had shut up. Somewhere along the line, Vivaldi had turned to Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’. He didn’t care. He felt _good_. Better than he had in ages.

And he’d done good too, that was the best part. Good that felt bad. And on his own, not just because of helping Aziraphale out so he could see ‘ _Into the Sodding Woods_ ’ for the hundredth time. He was sure Aziraphale would be happy to hear it. Would be pleased even. Might even say well done and Crowley could tell him to shut up but Aziraphale would look so happy that he wouldn’t care. He fumbled out his mobile and rang him up. It went straight to message he wasn’t sure Aziraphale even checked, so he rang it again.

After the fourth or so ring, Aziraphale picked up.

“Yes, hello, Crowley. Now isn’t the best time.” Then clearly to someone else. “To the left, dear. The left.” Then somewhat exasperated. “ _My_ left. Now do take care. It’s quite valuable.”

“What’sss going on?” Crowley asked. “Hanging picturesss?”

“No, just conducting a little experiment.” A pause and then. “You sound a little-- Oh! Oh, please, _watch out for the--_ ” There was the faint sound of shattering glass and Aziraphale sighed. “Never mind.”

“Issit an experiment or a demolition?” Crowley said, unable to keep the laugh completely from his voice. He didn’t know why it was so funny. Everything was funny. Light and happy and free.

“Very funny,” Aziraphale said shortly. “Did you need something?”

Crowley opened his mouth, prepared to tell the whole story about how he’d saved Aziraphale’s little club. But then a thought wormed its way through the alcohol haze. What if Aziraphale ended up worrying about it? What if he got paranoid and was looking over his shoulder? What if he thought what he had done, manifesting and all that, meant nothing; when in fact it had been one of the most amazing things that Crowley had ever seen?

“Crowley?” and then in growing concern. “Is everything alright?”

Fuck. Fuck, he had to say something. Anything.

“’M moving to America.” _…._ Except that. That…had not been a good idea.

“…What?” Aziraphale said after a long bout of silence.

Well, he couldn’t really say he was joking, could he? Yeah, just calling you up to pull your leg about moving. Ha ha let’s all share a laugh nothing suspicious here.

“Moving to America. Just me. To Vegas or Reno or Utah.”

Another long silence.

“Did…something happen?”

“No.”And then because he really needed an out no matter how stupid. “Got a problem with it?”

 _Please have a problem_ , he thought. _Even a small problem_.

“Oh… No… I don’t suppose I do…”

Shit. Not even the tiniest objection? Would he even care? Probably not. What would he care? He could just go to his little club or his little theater and just-- not care. About him. About any of it. Well he didn’t care that Aziraphale didn’t care.

“It’s just…all very sudden,” Aziraphale continued.

“Well it’s not like I’m going next week, you great knob,” Crowley snapped. “It’s going to take me some time to ssset up things.” _Stop_. A small part of him said. _Stop now._ He told it to sod off. He was too annoyed, too drunk, too him to listen to an irritating little voice. “In other words, I’ll be busy-- so if you feel the urge do anything stupid so I have to come in and save your arse. Don’t.”

…Shit, he should have stopped.

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, his voice frosty. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

…Shit… Fuck! Wait, wait, wait! He’d fucked up!

“Azira--” But there was dead air. “--phale…” He stared at his dark phone, then threw it across the table and thunked his head on it. How the _hell_ had it managed to turn out like that?! It had been going so well! And, he realized with a growing sense of doom as his brain sluggishly rewound, had he really called him a great knob?

“Fuuucck.”

Should he call him back and apologize? _Could_ he even? What could he even say without having to tell the truth? He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so badly. He needed to be sober to think this through… But  what was the point? It wasn’t as if the answer would come to him anyway. He’d run out of plans somehow. Run out of ways to make things right.  The hideous squeaks squeaked in his direction and he clicked his fingers so they squeaked somewhere else. Another click and Vivaldi began to play again. Right back to where he started then, only worse, and this time without booze and without ideas.

He used to have all he plans. He used to have _too many_ damn plans. He’d had plans ever since he burst into existence, ever since he was a goody goody white wings. Crowley viciously prodded that ancient memory, picked at that timeless scab just to feel the sting. How _happy_ he’d been then, just like all the other wankers. Nothing could go wrong. There was no wrong. There was just right. And no one questioned it. They’d just said to him, they’d said, know your place they’d said. Plans are not for you but the Almighty, they’d said. Fuck you, he’d told them. Fuck all of you. And for the first and hopefully last time in his life he’d fought them. Actually faced down the fuckers and fought. He had no weapon. Had no thought to call on miracles. He had bit and kicked and clawed. He remembered shrieking and snarling. Remembered being alone at the end, blooded and surrounded, heaving. Remembered how it felt when his wings had been wrenched behind him with burning cords and he’d been cast out, plummeting uncontrolled through the atmosphere, burning from within, burning from without, wanting to die or kill.

“Sir?”

Crowley stirred, took a breath, stared up at the human who stood at his table. It was the pepper shaker girl. She’d changed from dark leather to a white uniform with a gold bow tie; her heels to sensible flats. He didn’t know if it was better or worse that she worked here, but either way it felt galling. As if it was specially made to get under his skin. He managed to coordinate his face enough to sneer at her. She smiled as if unaffected, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of him with a faint click.

“It’s not the end of the world,” she said.

“What?” he managed, boggled.

“That obnoxiously loud fight you had over the phone? It’s not the end of the world.” She folded her arms over her tray. “Give your friend some time and go apologize. It’ll work out.”

He wanted to ask her what the hell she knew. He wanted to tell her to sod off. But the echoes of the memory still struck like flint through his bones and the implications of what he’d ruined in ten bloody stupid seconds with that phone call scrubbed through his mind. He didn’t have the heart to do much more than scowl. She pushed the coffee at him with her fingertips.

“It will help,” she said, then pivoted neatly on the ball of her foot and headed back to the kitchen. Crowley was tempted to dump it in the plant and storm out into the chill rain….but he didn’t have it in him to get up from the table. Every part of him felt rusted in place. Frozen almost.

 He sipped the coffee instead, to give himself something to do, to get his head in order. He was surprised to find how good the coffee was. It was rich, deep, so bitter it made his tongue curl to the roof of his mouth and made him want more. More than that it warmed him from within. Not in the snapping searing way of anger or hatred, but slow and steady, insinuating heated fingers throughout his body.

 Gradually, bit by bit, the world shifted into softer focus. The sound of the rain against the glass became soothing, Vivaldi was shut off and replaced with low jazz. Crowley knew it was a bad idea to let himself sink into it. That this was just the calm before the fucking storm. He knew it, and yet his body relaxed without him. The patrons became humans again, irritating but simple, the waitstaff became people just trying to do their jobs-- even the decor seemed to mellow a bit, taking on a comforting warmth, shelter from the gentle syncopation of the rain outside. The ginger idiot in the plate glass window still remained a ginger idiot, but now with a little ember of hope in his heart that he couldn’t quite extinguish.

 

 

>>>>><<<<< 

 

It was Friday before Crowley had pulled himself together enough to come stand in front of the bookshop, bouquet in one hand and box of chocolate truffles in the other.  He still didn’t have a plan. Or at least not much of one. In a way, it felt like he’d been overreacting that night in the cafe. Being pissed out of his mind hadn’t helped. So he’d called Aziraphale a name. That wasn’t so bad. Aziraphale had forgiven him for more.

It wouldn’t even be hard really, he told himself as he stared blindly  at the red and gold leaves that had been strung above the door in deference to the season. He prepped himself a little, telling himself just what he’d say as he blindly stared. In fact it would be easy. He could just say that he was drunk and hadn’t meant it and that he’d just been speaking out of his arse about America. Being drunk could take care of a lot of things. He was pretty sure Aziraphale would just shake his head and roll his eyes and let himself be taken out for lunch.

It would be fine, Crowley told himself again. He just had to take care to not say anything astronomically stupid. Somehow it kept happening and he figured it was because he hadn’t been paying attention. But now he would focus. And if the flowers and chocolates weren’t enough to bring him over, then Crowley had a trump card up his sleeve that was sure to.

Confident now, he straightened, balked, lifted his head, took a deep breath and shouldered his way through the door. A boy gave him an owl-eyed look from behind the register. Crowley stopped short and stared at him. It wasn’t anyone he knew, he thought, running quickly through his memory. Though he looked faintly familiar. He wasn’t a thief either.  Not the way he was standing there idly playing solitaire. There was a different kind of terror that filled his face.

“Can I help you, sir?” the boy asked softly, as if begging Crowley to say no. Crowley only just prevented himself from ducking back outside to check the name above the door. It was the right place. Had to be. Unless something strange had happened. Unless Aziraphale had done something drastic…or had something drastic done to him.

“I’ll think about it,” Crowley said,  letting the door shut behind him. He prowled around, pretending to be browsing. Everything looked the same. The smell of the place hadn’t changed much, but it was still new enough that he couldn’t pick up any subtle difference.  Aziraphale’s presence seemed to linger here and there and he didn’t feel any kind of malevolence about the place aside from a few of the books.

“You Mr. Fell or Mr. Co?” Crowley said, turning back. The boy pulled his hand from where he was plucking nervously at his afro and puzzled his fingers together.

“Neither, sir. I’m just the temp.”

Temp? Since when had Aziraphale had a temp?

“Mr. Fell is makin’ a Starbucks run.”

If it was a lie, it was so bad that anyone would believe it. The words sat strange in the back of his mind. Aziraphale and Starbucks didn’t go anywhere near each other as far as he was concerned. Frankly, he was surprised the angel knew what a Starbucks was, let alone wanting to go to one. He thought to scare some information out of the kid, but then remembered the angel was trying an experiment and let it go for now. Nothing seemed out of place after all. Everything felt at peace. It should be fine.

“When’s he due back?” Crowley asked. The boy shrugged, eyes darting nervously to the window.

“Dunno. He just left.”

Crowley thought a moment. He had a few choices here. He could sit and wait for Aziraphale to return, but that seemed too needy-- too like a dog waiting at heel. He could pause the boy long enough to slip into the back, set up the flowers, set out the chocolates and then lounge around pretending he hadn’t done anything. That seemed like a good choice, only if Aziraphale really was that pissed off still, he didn’t want to make it worse by being in his private spaces unexpectedly. He sure as hell didn’t want to wait outside or in another shop and wait for Aziraphale to pass by; that was too pathetic even for this situation. Maybe he should just browse around. Not sitting and waiting, but not invading either.

He could feel the boy’s owl-gaze following him around the room as he moved, wondering just what Aziraphale had told him to have made him so edgy. It was then he realized he was standing by one of the little nooks in a gloomy corner. It was a corner so gloomy in fact that the titles would be difficult to read for a human. It was a definite Do Not Touch shelf, and one that was new to him. He grinned, wiggling his fingers and feeling the faint vibrations of a ‘nothing to see here’ blessing on it. After a moment’s consideration, he plucked a copy of _Don Quixote_ from the shelf. It wasn’t an old copy, printed some time in the mid-1800s, but a quick peek at the inside told him that it was the one that Aziraphale had signed by that one actor he’d liked. Crowley didn’t know who it was. Probably someone famous or secretive or rich. In any case the book was probably worth a fortune.

“Erm…” the boy said as Crowley plunked the book gently on the counter. “I…I don’t think that’s for sale.”

“Come on,” Crowley said with a grin. “It’s a bookshop. _Everything_ _’s_ for sale.”

“But… but it ain’t cheap…”

“Neither is my date.” He dug a wad of money of his jacket pocket and thumbed ostentatiously through the bills. The boy goggled. Crowley could see him start to sweat.

“Only…he said to not sell anything while he was out…”

“Sure?” Crowley regarded the boy. “On a slow day like this, he’d be glad to shift anything, don’t you think? And a book this expensive, well, it’d be a feather in your cap…”

“I …” the boy started, and then the door opened letting in a gust of chill air.

“What on _Earth_ are you doing?” Aziraphale said. Crowley straightened, twisting his head to see the windswept angel carrying a tray of two coffees. Relief went through him, coupled with a weird sort of giddiness. He looked so frazzled and out of place that Crowley grinned. It was probably a bad idea to tease him right now, he knew, but he couldn’t resist.

“Making a purchase,” Crowley said, waving the money. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you were not.”

“I wasn’t going to sell anything. Honest,” said the boy.

“I believe you, Raymond.” Aziraphale set the coffee down and regarded Crowley with eyes like glaciers. “I suppose you want something. I’ll meet you in the back in a moment.” And with that he swept up the book and disappeared into the shop. Crowley winced, okay. Yeah. Should not have done that. Don’t be stupid, he reminded himself. That’s all. Just don’t be stupid. He ignored the boy’s questioning gaze and headed toward the back with gifts in hand.  

 At least if he’d been a little stupid, he hadn’t been _astronomically_ stupid, he told himself as he slunk around, setting the chocolates out and getting a vase prepared for the flowers. It had just been a joke. He’d just been testing the boy, yeah. To make sure he wouldn’t give into temptation. That was all. And if Aziraphale was testy, who could blame him? It was fine. This still had the potential to turn out well.

He set the chocolate on a table near the vase and arranged the flowers in them. They drooped a little as if unhappy with the rough handling.

“You’d better straighten up if you know what’s good for you,” he snarled at them under his breath. They weren’t dying yet and had no business pretending otherwise. The flowers sprung to life in trembling color and he snorted. That was better.

“You don’t have to threaten the poor things,” Aziraphale said, his voice cold. Crowley shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, pretending that the flowers and chocolates were no big deal.

“Well?” said Aziraphale as if he hadn’t noticed. “Did you forget some disparaging remark you meant to tell me?”

The words hit like a slap of cold water. As if Crowley was the sort to call him shit as a matter of course. It wasn’t like that. It had never been like that.

“Ughhh Come on! I was _drunk,_ _”_  he snapped. _“_ You had to know I was drunk.”

“Yes. You’re completely right. That makes it so much better.” Aziraphale sat at his desk, glasses on. Crowley had the feeling he was being dismissed and could have slapped himself. It was stupid. This was stupid. He just had to apologize. To be the one to do it. Even if it was unfair and if he could _tell_ Aziraphale why he lied, it would only hurt him more. Wasn’t lying for the sake of someone else good? Wasn’t that a rule somewhere? It had to be. So if he was being good, maybe he didn’t even have to apologize. Maybe he could just smooth things over another way.

“So…” Crowley leaned a hip against the desk, hands in his pockets. “What’s the deal with the Arnold kid?”

“ _Raymond_ ,” Aziraphale said shortly, snatching some papers away that Crowley had inadvertently been leaning on. “He’s the nephew of one of the members of the club.”

“Oh!” Crowley snapped his fingers. “The goat faced one.”

“Yes, Sandridge. Or Handsy Sandsy as he keeps wanting to remind me.”

“Well you know humans.” Crowley grinned. “Always reaching for the divine.”

“I will stab you with this pen and I _won_ _’t_ regret it.” Aziraphale waved the fountain pen threateningly in his direction. A joke came to mind. Several jokes actually. But he reminded himself he wasn’t here to antagonize him. He filed the thoughts away for the next pen comment Aziraphale made after they’d made up.

“Part of your experiment?” Crowley tried instead. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Experimenting,” Aziraphale said. “ I don’t know. Throwing things at the wall and seeing what sticks. I’m rather new to this change business. I’ve had him for two weeks now and I still catch myself asking if there’s anything he needs. But I have made a few strides. _This_ for instance.” He gestured at the coffee cup. “Don’t ask me what’s in it. I just gave them the slip of paper that Raymond wrote down for me. It’s supposed to be the bomb dot com.”

“Oh god, please don’t say that,” Crowley said, making a face. “You using expressions like that makes every part of me _cringe_.”

“Well the door is that way. I’m sure you’ll find something more to your tastes elsewhere.”

Shit.

Damnit, he just--

Why did Aziraphale have to be so-- why did have to say shit like that? Like tickety-boo and jolly good and then try to do not even modern slang at the same time? Humorous Salt and Pepper Shakers Crowley thought, looking at Aziraphale’s caged shoulders. This was stupid. It was all just a bloody waste. Why did he keep trying? What was it that kept him coming back? Everything was the answer and he hated that it was.

Fine then. Time to skip the bullshit and cut right to the point.

“Heard a new sushi place opened up by the aquarium. It’s supposed to be five star. Do you want to --”

“No.”

The word had the finality of a gavel, of a slamming door, of a rock being laid over a tomb. Was Aziraphale really _that_ angry with him?  He couldn’t be. Not over a stupid insult Crowley hadn’t even really meant. Not when he was so obviously drunk. Who meant anything when they were drunk?

He tried again.

“You’ll like it. You know you will.”

“No, thank you.”

He was doing this on purpose, Crowley realized. Just trying to get back at him. Had to be it. It was petty revenge but it was working because he felt more and more annoyed by it.

“Sorry, are you a vegetarian now or is there some moral argument I’m missing here?” he said, far more sarcastically than he meant to.

“For the love of Heaven, I’m _busy,_ _”_ Aziraphale said, slamming the pen down. It splintered, sending ink splattering all across the desk and Aziraphale’s pale clothes. “Oh--!” the angel started, and seemed to want to say a very vile curse but stopped himself disappointingly short.

“I’ll get it,” Crowley said, glad to do something.

“No.”

“Come on!”

“I said no!”

Crowley leaned forward to do it anyway but Aziraphale clicked his fingers and the stain vanished from his clothes and desk, even the pen was whole. Aziraphale frowned down at his vest, rubbed his fingers over it. He still knew it had been there. It was going to _eat_ at him, Crowley knew it. Why did he have to be so stubborn?

“Should have let me do it,” Crowley said, just to rub it in.

“Look, what _did_ you come here for?” Aziraphale said, giving him a burning look. “If it’s just to tempt me, let me tell you flat out that I’m _not_ interested in _anything_ except what’s right in front of me.” He gestured to what looked a bit like a ledger. Was he still doing work for the Horse and Pony Club? Crowley frowned, opened his mouth to warn him about Waterburn, then suddenly remembered why he couldn’t. And _then_ remembered why he’d come here in the first place which…wasn’t to cause this.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he told himself. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked away.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “For calling you a great knob.”

“You’re forgiven,” Aziraphale said shortly. “Go away.”

What? He was getting _kicked out_? Just like that? Just because -- just because he’d been a jackass.

Again.

Damnit.

 He _should_ go… he knew he should. But instead he sank, sitting on the floor with a grunt, leaning back against the desk. Aziraphale sighed but said nothing more. As if he’d given up. Crowley closed his eyes and felt worse, wondering how the heaven it had happened. How it had come to this when he’d just wanted to make everything better. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was incapable. Maybe all his plans had left him. He wanted to go back in time. To start it all over. To apologize again the proper way. To find a way to do it so Aziraphale really would …actually feel better and not just tolerate his presence. He sat in silence instead, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the shop. The clocks ticked, measuring time second after second. Aziraphale’s pen scratched against the paper. The chair squeaked slightly as he shifted his weight.

Crowley opened his eyes and gazed at Aziraphale through his lashes. It was a new vantage point, really, or an old old one. He could see the edge of the chair, the length of the angel’s thigh, the part where his soft worn vest rested against the top of his trousers. Crowley wanted to nuzzle that spot, just bury his face against Aziraphale’s side and breathe in.  To wrap his arms around him and apologize again and again.  He wanted the angel to forgive him.

He was too proud to ask if Aziraphale really did forgive him. He was too afraid of the answer. Thirty minutes passed. An hour. Crowley leaned in just a little closer, but didn’t touch; just parted his lips to breathe in the scent a little better. He still smelled the same, even with the splatter of ink that had been missed, hanging from his sleeve. Crowley tilted his head up and blew it away.

“What?”Aziraphale lifted his arm, to look at his sleeve, then gave Crowley a tired look before sighing again. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“Sorry,” Crowley said. Easier this time to do it. Maybe because it didn’t matter. It was just one small apology on the mountain of apologies beneath it. Still a strange kind of hope fluttered in his chest as Aziraphale continued to look down at him, the lines of his face softening, his eyes seeming to deepen in color. He held out hope that one of those hands would move down, stroke through his hair, pass over his cheek. _Touch me, Angel_ , he wanted to say. Would never say. _Just for a little while_.

Aziraphale didn’t. Instead his look grew concerned, the wrinkles furrowing between his brows and he said:

“I do hope…that is to say… This isn’t about er… the office incident, is it?”

Was that what that what they were calling Crowley making an utter idiot of himself now? The office incident? It wasn’t about that anyway. Or at least not exactly. He was almost grateful he was too tired to fight about it. To not call it what it was. An incident. Of an idiot. But he couldn’t own up to it. Well, he could, and wanted to in a way. To say that he’d meant all those things he’d said, of wanting to be with him, of wanting to be worthy of him. To say it was alright that the angel didn’t want it. That _he_ didn’t even want to want it. Aziraphale wouldn’t like any of that, he thought. Would only pull away as guilt charged through his face. So better make it easy on him.

“Please, Angel, I was drunk.” The words felt like a betrayal.

“ _Really._ ” Aziraphale shot him an exasperated look.

“Yeah, really,” he said, the lie running smooth as silk through his lips. “You think I would have said that if I were _anywhere_ near sober?” And then, because he knew he had to. “You’re not my type.” And it was true. He was too pure. Too good. Too deserving of someone far better.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale in a tone he couldn’t read. “Well naturally.” A chuckle. Did it sound forced? “Nor are you mine.” Well that hurt, while also making him want to sink into the floor because a part of him wanted to ask: How can I change that? But he knew there was nothing he could do.

“Which is just as well,” the angel continued. “Because that sort of thing is _completely_ beyond me.” And while maybe the chuckle had been forced, there was no disguising the relief in his voice. Well that was that then. And it was fine. Because they could still be… whatever the hell it was they were. Friends? Associates? The only two with no side but their own. He’d just have to build up that callous again, that was all. Easier now that he was on more solid footing. And it wasn’t as if they couldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder.  It wasn’t as if they couldn’t still do things once in a while when Crowley finally managed to stop being an asshole.

Now that he thought of it, he should leave. He wanted to stay but it was probably better if he gave the angel breathing room. He got to his feet, rolling his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Are you going?” Aziraphale said, a tone in his voice that Crowley couldn’t read.

“Yeah.” And then because he should resist but couldn’t. “Do you want me to stay?”

 Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing together as he looked away, tapped his pen against the desk. It was the same expression he got when his desires or orders ran right into his morals. Crowley could practically _hear_ him thinking, the thoughts chasing each other around in the vortex that was his mind. What was right? What wasn’t? What could he risk? What shouldn’t he risk under any circumstances? It usually frustrated Crowley. He wanted to shake him by his shoulders and tell him to do whatever the hell he wanted. Especially now. What was the point of thinking of good or bad when good didn’t give a single fuck about you?

But then if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Aziraphale. It didn’t help the pressure of six thousand years plus the eternity before time had been invented was on his head. It didn’t help that he was slow at change. So slow at everything. That he clung to the past, not out of desperation, but a cherishing love. Or maybe, Crowley thought with a faint twisted smile, the march of time was just too fast for him. That he loved things when the rest of the world had left them far behind for the newer, the bolder, the more convenient.

“Maybe… you should go… Just for now,” Aziraphale said finally, an apology written in the lines of his face. It stung, but not as much as he thought it might. He took a deep breath, let it out. That pepper shaker girl had been right. More right than she knew. Aziraphale needed time. He always had. Weeks, months, years. Who knew? However long it took, Crowley decided, he would try to keep in pace with him.

“Alright.” He rested a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was warm under his palm and the plush velvet of the vest was soft. It was all he could do to keep talking and not lean down and bury his nose against that shoulder, or in that soft white-blond hair that would smell like heaven. “Listen, I know you’re worried. I know the future seems like a big terrifying emptiness. I feel it too. But it’s just a feeling. We’ll figure it out by and by. I promise you.” After all… “We have all the time in the world.”

“Crowley…” His voice was faint, sounding on the verge of tears. Poor angel. He squeezed his shoulder and let go, the feeling remaining with him, burning in his palm.

“See you soon.” He left then, feeling Aziraphale watching him, half hoping he would call out to him but he never did. Crowley tried not to let that bother him too much. He knew that in so many ways he deserved the silence. He moved through the shop. Past Raymond’s curious owl eyes, through the door and out into the pavement.

Outside, twilight had fallen. Evening came fast this time of year. He took a moment to stare up at the sky, streaked with the last remaining colors of sunset. Another day gone. Another coming soon. He slid into the Bentley running his fingers over the wheel. Now to go back to the flat and think. No. Let thoughts come. Let the ideas form until something spun into existence that he could hold onto the palm of his hand. Something would come to him. It would be alright. Given time.

The Bentley purred to life. As he pulled off and away from curb, the speakers sang to him in soft tones.

 

“Thought of you as my mountaintop

Thought of you as my peak

Thought of you as everything

I've had, but couldn't keep

I've had, but couldn't keep

 

Linger on your pale blue eyes

Linger on your pale blue eyes”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those returning readers, I'd like to mention that I edited some things in the first chapter to be more canon compliant, mostly regarding Aziraphale's actions during the first war. The blessing/curse of an evolving canon, my friends.


	5. Gather Ye Rosebuds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is moving to America and Aziraphale just can't get the thought out of his head. 
> 
> Meanwhile there is trouble brewing back at the Horse and Pony and Aziraphale becomes an angel on a mission.

Crowley was moving to America. The thought struck him unexpectedly, as often it did, with no rhyme or reason attached. He could be at his desk here or in the club, going through another of those ridiculous romance novels or even walking to the coffee shop to get another hideous drink for Raymond— and he’d be caught by the realization. And then that evening would come back to him in fits and starts. The irritation. The hurt. The gentle UnCrowley reassurance that everything was going to work out. That they would work it out together.

Only he was moving to America, so he supposed not.

“You are being ridiculous,” he told himself softly but firmly, turning his attention once more to the ledger. He had just been spoiled of a decade or two or three of Crowley living in close proximity. They hadn’t even met more than once a week most of the time, save when the Apocalypse…shenaniganery began. Before then it would be sometimes be years before they saw one another again. In fact, most of the eighteenth century had been Crowley free— Well he hadn’t really seen him again until that dreadful night in the church. The point was, they had always been fine with it before.

And now was the winter of their discontent. Well, of his discontent. Well, it was still November. And a dull and pressing November if ever there was one. Outside the sky was a flat steel gray, without even the promise of rain or snow. Just cold bitter winds that whipped down through the buildings, splashed on faces and crept in shirt collars. Christmas decorations had gone up all over the place though December was still a couple of weeks away. Aziraphale categorically refused to put his up until the first. He quite liked the aesthetic, but November was for November and Christmas lasted exactly thirty-one days and after that he could finally unclench his jaw.

But that was then and this was now and it had been a few weeks since he’d seen Crowley last… and it was ridiculous that he wanted to see him again. To…make up somehow or… to at least establish that steadiness that they’d developed over the centuries. Perhaps that was what he missed. Even when he hadn’t seen Crowley for decades or more, the Arrangement was there, a solid tie between them. Now it was there but not there, everything all higgledy-piggledy, the once steady, sturdy world thrown into disarray.

The old world ending, he thought glumly. A new one beginning.

He had never been good with change.

He stared at the silver pen between his fingers. The crisp white of his sleeve, pure as fallen snow, except where the ink stain was- had been- an invisible blotch that he knew had been there and he’d miracled it away but felt like it had just been covered up. Only no, he was not going to devolve into metaphor or his whole evening would be ruined. He had to get up, that was it. Go do something. Stir the blood. He should, shutting the log book and staring long at the Phone —which had been silent since that last call, before gingerly taking it up and tucking it in his pocket. Then taking it back out again and leaving it right where it was. Then burying it in a drawer under a slim volume of _Analects_ and a somewhat tattered copy of the score from _Love Never Dies_. He certainly didn’t need _that_ anxiety hanging about. Not that he was anxious. Not that he was waiting certainly. A man just didn’t want to be too attached to his phone. Nor an angel either.

That out of the way, he straightened his shoulders and went out. There were customers in the shop. He was somewhat proud of that. Three of them at noon on a Tuesday. The shop was open for business and there they were, browsing through the stacks, picking up books with not entirely clean hands and breathing on them. But it was good. It was a Book Shop. Which meant he Sold Books. And so he had. Five of them actually. Even an herbal written in the late eighteenth century that he’d plucked out of a basket when visiting Glastonbury. Well, a miraculously good copy of an herbal written in the late eighteenth century that he’d plucked out of a basket in Glastonbury. The original was tucked into the back where it needed a bit of preservation work for a very slight smudge in one of the page corners that would certainly take several years to get out and then it would go right back on the shelf to be sold for real this time.

Raymond was standing behind the counter, leaning back, his slender brown arm around a  girl with braids spilling out in abundance. He was holding a Phone in the air above them and Aziraphale saw their faces reflected back in the screen. Oh. He knew that one! They were taking a self-ee. What a clever little concept that was.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Aziraphale said to get their attention. Poor Raymond nearly dropped the phone. They both turned at once. The girl with dark eyebrows raised,  Raymond looking ashen with wide, spooked eyes, as if he’d been caught at something. Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of them and offered a friendly smile.

“I don’t believe we’ve been formerly introduced.”

“Oh, um, this is Shauntae, my friend,” said Raymond. The girl’s lips quirked in a smile and she elbowed him lightly. The boy grinned a bit, cheeks darkening. “My girlfriend. Shaun, this is Mr. Fell. He owns this place.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Aziraphale.

“Cheers,” said Shauntae, which he assumed amounted to the same thing.

“I hope it’s okay if she stays a bit. Only she’s got some time between classes and I thought—” Raymond mercifully faded to a stop as Aziraphale held up a hand.

“It’s perfectly alright, of course. So long as you don’t frighten the books.” He meant it as a joke. But as they looked at each other and then back at him, he wasn’t quite sure he managed it. Probably for the best really. They were still watching him, Raymond looking a bit awkward, and Aziraphale realized they were waiting for him to say or do something.

Right. Stirring the blood, that’s what he’d been about. Getting some fresh air.

“Well.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I am in the mood for a venti mocchiato…whatever it was with excessive whip. Would either of you children like something?”

“No thanks, Mr. Fell,” said Raymond.

And here was another great step forward he’d made, Aziraphale thought as he went to fetch his coat. He was leaving the shop and leaving _someone else_ in charge of it. Temporarily. It was still slow going admittedly and he forgot himself now and again— but he was really stepping into the modern, human world.

As he straightened his lapels, he caught sight of Raymond and Shauntae again. There they were at the counter, peering at something on the Phone, their heads close together. He reached out tentatively and held her hand and she clasped his back. Aziraphale sighed happily. Ah, young love. He’d seen it countless times over the centuries but it always felt so fresh and yet so vulnerable at the same time. His gaze drifted to their clasped hands and he remembered how Crowley’s had felt against his as they sat in the bus, the long slender fingers, the slightly damp palm. Neither of them had said a word about it, as if it wasn’t happening. And when they reached Crowley’s flat, it was as if it had never happened at all.

But Crowley was moving to America. Perhaps he already had. Who knew. Aziraphale almost wanted to call him and check, but lord knew how that would look. What it might imply. What it might suggest. He’d asked for some space and Crowley had given it to him and it was unfair of him to take it back, especially if he wasn’t sure he wanted it. But he would get it now, in spades.

“Mr. Fell?” said Raymond and Aziraphale realized he had been staring at the floor, hands pressed against his lapels. He smiled.

“Just making sure I have anything,” he said to reassure them. “I’ll be back shortly, and remember to call me before you sell anything.”

“What, _anything_?” said Shauntae as Aziraphale ducked out the door and onto the pavement. There. Chill wind that took ones breath away, a crowded SoHo street, floods of cars and people. The world looked just as it had for the past decade or so. And thanks to their…absolutely botching everything, it would keep on going. And that was good. He had always enjoyed the seething mass of humanity, of being among them, one of them even as he stood apart.

Only he was one of them now, he reminded himself. For all intents and purposes. And he was doing a bang up job so far, moving with the routines of a normal life and, what was more, Stepping into the Future by even _approaching_ a Star Bucks again. He really had a handle on this now. So it was with  a sense of well earned pride that he approached the odorus coffee shop.

This particular Star Bucks was little more than a hole in the wall. It used to be the back room if Pussy Cat books, where they absolutely did not sell skin magazines back when it was illegal to do so. And not books either, Aziraphale was quick to find out. For when he’d gone once to scope out the competition, they had given him funny looks and told him this was no fruit stand. He of course had corrected them by telling them it wasn’t ‘any’ fruit stand and had miracled their stock into back issues of Homemaker in a fit of pique.

Now, of course, instead of skin mags it sold horrible coffee in paper cups with barely room to move in the crowded space. Aziraphale queued up behind an older gentleman and kept his hands folded in front of him as he looked round. The Christmas decorations were garish, red and green plastic garland looped the walls as well as paper Father Christmases. There was even a fake tree with bright white lights decorated with paper coffee cups and a beaming plastic angel at the top with a coffee cup wired into her hand, the poor dear. The music was the thirty-fifth rendition of Winter Wonderland and he was eternally surprised that such a simple song could be so very grating. It was _such_ a horrible place that humans threw themselves mindlessly into that he wouldn’t be surprised if Crowley had invented it.

…And he was moving to America. Aziraphale could imagine him roaring down wide thoroughfares in the shining black Bentley. Sauntering into Star Bucks which, in his imagination, had the  saloon type swinging doors of the old west. Finding a perfect home in the land of the completely obnoxious.

No more idling in front of the bookshop. No more popping round for a lunch or a picnic in the park. No more social walks, pretending to be admiring hedges. No more sidling behind him and whispering temptations in his ear that set his nerves on fire.

Someone cleared their throat impatiently and Aziraphale realized the queue had gone on without him. He hurried to take his place behind the gentleman once more . He needed to get hold of himself. He needed to take his mind off this. He thought fiercely of the bookshop. And then when that didn’t work, the ledgers, that Crowley had no part in. He forced himself to remember in detail every expenditure of the Horse and Pony over the last two years— which was quite a lot for a club otherwise so threadbare. Of course he knew why— That foul Waterburn…

Just thinking of it made sure he had a steady fire of righteous indignation in his heart, that kept him going, albiet slightly tersely, through his ridiculous order and back out onto the pavement. Why, that man deserved some divine retribution for abusing that poor little club so. More than just having the heaven scared into him. He would… He would… He didn’t know what he’d do but he’d certainly think of something!

Oh yes, of course! He knew just what to do. He would trace the roots of Waterburn’s embezzlement scheme and present it to the proper authorities. How the mighty would fall. This meant he had to take himself to the Horse and Pony and review the ledgers carefully once more, as well as every bit of correspondence, no matter how small. It might take him hours. Days. A week, perhaps, of feverish searching. It was perfect.

As he came toward the shop, a black sedan pulled up on the curb and two men got out. They were rather large men wearing sunglasses despite the sunny weather and one of them came toward him with grave purpose.

“Mr. Fell?” he said, voice like wheels over a gravel road. “I think we need to have a talk. It’s about the er…future safety of your shop.”

“Not now, please,” Aziraphale said. With a click of the fingers they were gone, leaving only a faint breeze of displaced air that sirred his hair as he passed it. Seeing an opportunity, he got in the black sedan and passed the baffled driver the hideous coffee.

“To the Horse and Pony, please. I’ll leave a generous tip if you hurry without breaking any traffic laws.”

“Ye-yes, sir,” the man stammered and Aziraphale sat back as the car squealed out into the street. He wouldn’t even dock his tip, Azirphale thought, hands tight against his stomach as the world whirled past. He was an angel on a mission.

 

*********

 

The worst part, Aziraphale had to admit as he leaned back from the ledger for the third time, was that Waterburn was so damn clever. Slick was a word that might have been used. The fire of righteousness still burned bright in his belly, but it was tempered somewhat by the fact that so far, there wasn’t much he could do. Oh, there were threads to tease out here and there. Money donated for one charity didn’t quite go where it should. Or if it did, the charity in and of itself was suspicious. The tallies didn’t quite add up as if someone was skimming off the top of the pot, as if trying to decide how much would be missed.  Any accountant looking through this would know right away that there was something untoward going on. But there was nothing to pin it on Waterburn. All the blame would fall right on the shoulders of the Horse and Pony.

He needed more information. More places to get it. It would require more deep diving and research. Visits to libraries and government offices. But little he could do right now. It hadn’t even taken more than a couple of hours.

Well, perhaps longer than that, he amended, as he stood and stretched on habit. From here he could look out the tiny window of the cramped office to see that night had fallen. The somber clock on the wall, out of place among the files and binders and egg crates used as storage, told him that it was half past two. He was feeling a little peckish, he decided. Angelo’s was open right now. And so was that delightful Pad Thai place that doubled as a bar. Perhaps that one. The atmosphere was dark and uniquely blue and, at this hour, everyone would be either drunk or stumbling out the door toward home.

“You could use a pick me up,” he told himself, patting his stomach. Now that he had a lead, no, a _purpose_ , he felt much better about life. There was something about this he could really sink his teeth into. And it wasn’t as if heaven could complain— Except he wasn’t worried about them anymore, so even if they did have a problem with it… “Bully for them,” he said, gathering his coat.

The corridor was dark outside the office, but oddly the light in the lounge was on. It wasn’t typical for the club to be occupied at all on a Wednesday night, and rarely so late. He thought it might have been a fluke when he heard the distinctive squeak of the floorboard and a clink of glass. Curious, he went to investigate and frowned at what he saw. Argyle was there, disheveled, sweater vest askew, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. Poor man. He been glum ever since the Vicars and Tarts party. It was unusual for him, the others had said in concerned murmurs when Argyle wasn’t there. He was usually the life of the party. The only get up and go that the Horse and Pony had. But his pep had left and his stiff upper lip had turned into a bulldog’s frown. Why wasn’t hard to guess.

Aziraphale thought to leave him to it, not sure what words of comfort he could even offer. But as Argyle shuffled toward the sofa with hunched shoulders and bowed head, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t just leave the man in need. Instead he cleared his throat and knocked lightly on the door. Argyle tensed and turned, eyes wide in something close to guilt. Aziraphale couldn’t help but note that he hid the tumbler of bourbon behind him. Judging by the red state of his eyes and the bags under them, he needed that tumbler as well as a good night’s sleep.

“Didn’t know you were about, Mr. Fell,” Argyle croaked.

“Oh just poking at the accounts,” Aziraphale said, hanging up his coat on the hat stand. “I was about to indulge in a little tipple before heading home. Do you mind the company?”

“S’ppose not. Not if it’s you,” said Argyle unconvincingly. Well, no one should drink alone. Especially not in that state. Aziraphale poured himself some brandy and perched on the chair opposite the sofa, quickly banishing the memory of a certain long limbed demon sprawled across it not too long ago. There was a hush of silence for a moment, save for the ticking of the clock. He watched Argyle hunch on the sofa, holding the tumbler between his knees, turning it about in his fingers. The gold horse shoe ring of the Stabler, that Waterburn had never worn Aziraphale thought indigently, glinted on his finger.

“It suits you,” Aziraphale said gently, to break the silence, to get Argyle talking perhaps. “That ring. Like it belongs there.”

“Er…yeah, I s’ppose.” He peered at it and then leaned back on the sofa with a sigh. “Never planned on being a Stabler at all. Afraid I’m not a very good one.”

“Nonsense, you just need some time to get things sorted out.”

Argyle offered him a wry smile. “Don’t think anyone’s got that much time.” He knocked back the bourbon far too quickly and sighed again. Aziraphale wished he could do more, but perhaps the only thing that would raise Argyle’s spirits was time and patience. _That_ Aziraphale had in abundance.

“You ever been in love, Mr. Fell?”

The question caught Aziraphale mid-drink and he had to take a minute to choke and cough before he could answer, not wanting to spew it out like a charlatan. What a question! He considered it however. He loved everyone generally speaking, of course. As an angel it was practically in his job description. He’d even had excessive fondness for some humans through the ages, perhaps at times too much so. But he couldn’t say as if he’d ever been _in_ love. That emotion wasn’t proper for an angel to have, he’d always thought. But what a beautiful thing to experience~! If he could have indulged in such an ephemeral feeling, muse to poets and bards. Alas.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“Sure? You and your bloke seemed pretty close.”

“Bloke?” Aziraphale blinked, trying to think of who Argyle might mean.

“The ginger.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale felt his cheeks flood with heat. “He’s not my… bloke as you put it. Not in the least. I hardly know him. We just happened to be in the same place at the same time. That’s all. A friend. Yes. Well sort of. I mean mostly. But not my bloke. Certainly not.” He tittered. It was foolish, he knew. They had fixed that problem. Or rather damaged Aziraphale’s reputation in heaven somewhat beyond redemption— and that was a thought he didn’t care to think about. But somehow the thought of him and Crowley being linked together in public filled him with a cold sort of terror. Though Gabriel had _seen_ it, blast everything. Had seen them fight side by side. So why—?!

“Oh so he was a rent boy,” said Argyle with a nod.

“He most certainly was not!” That was even worse somehow. Though he wouldn’t have put it past Crowley to have done something like that. He could see him lingering in the doorways in Sodom. Wearing one of those keen sandals that said ‘follow me’ on the tread and then slip into a darkened room, dark linen slipping off an angled shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he muttered, taking another sip of bourbon and pushing his mind from exploring that thought further.

“It’s alright, Mr. Fell. I know you’re on the up and up. No shame in it. We do it all the time. Just for company’s sake, y’see. Smart to bring your own tart to the party I thought.”

“Mm.” He was sort of followed, but that was neither here nor there.

“Have I ever showed you a picture of my Ian?” A bit of a non sequitur, but whatever got them off Crowley the quickest. In any case, Argyle was already fumbling for his billfold, so Aziraphale expected he would see it regardless. He moved to the sofa and leaned in as the man produced a small photograph. Two young men stood in front of an ash tree, the red brick of a school of some sort rising behind them. One of them was undoubtedly Argyle. He had more hair in the photograph, and was slightly thinner, but still there was the roundness of the chin and the eager eyes. The man standing next to him was tall and had an aristocratic bearing. Something about the face seemed oddly familiar.

“We were mates in school,” Argyle said. “And a little more after. Of course it was a lot harder back then do as you liked with who you liked and we weren’t out to the races, as you might say. We always promised each other that one day we would be. That they couldn’t hold us back forever… “

“He’s quite handsome,” Aziraphale said, sensing some sort of tragedy in the air. It was  a shame what humans did to one another for something so simple as love.

“Yeah. Always had a girl in the wings trying to snag him. I dunno how I got so lucky as to catch his eye. Anyway, round about twenty-three he started saying we should go off together— just the two of us. Course I was terrified. Said no. Then one day he got run off the road by some yank in a Mercedes, hit a tree and that was that.”

“Oh… oh my dear I’m so sorry.” He meant it even as he suspected it might be the case. Human bodies were so fragile. They could be gone in an instant— and for even less than that! He gently gave the man a pat on the shoulder, not knowing what other comfort might be offered. Argyle sniffed and waved his hand away.

“Nah, was a long time ago.  It’s just— I never thought I’d feel that way again until… well…Cec came along.”

Oh dear, here it was. He couldn’t blame Argyle certainly and, in matters of love, well, his guidance had been given on the matter and the only one who could move forward was Argyle himself. But he now understood a little more of the connection. Ian and Waterburn had the same bearing, if not the same face. A similar tilt to the head perhaps. A familiar curl of the lips. No wonder Argyle had fallen for that cad so easily.

“He’s avoiding my calls. Avoiding everything. I thought— I mean, I could hardly believe it a duffer like me—”

“You are not a duffer!”

Another wry smile and a glance with red rimmed eyes. Aziraphale tried not to notice how much they glinted with wet.

“I know a duffer when I see one. And I don’t blame him. I just want to know why.”

That had been his fault, he supposed. He could have explained better. Well, in retrospect, he could have explained anything. It hadn’t really occurred to him at the time to do so. But he would, he decided. Once he could expose Waterburn as a fraud,  he could smooth everything over.

“The worst part is,” Argyle said, running a hand over his thinning hair. “The worst part is me and Cec were planning to go to the Christmas Gala. Got the tickets and everything. Now I’ve got to either show up alone and look like an idiot or beg Sandridge and look like a desperate idiot.”

“Handsy Sandsy?” He couldn’t help but bristle at the very thought! Moreover, something about hearing his name filled Aziraphale with a faint queasiness, like there was something he was forgetting. But never mind that for now.  “Certainly not!” And then, impulsively. “I shall go with you.”

“Ey?” Argyle gave him a bleary eyed look and Aziraphale tried his best smile.

“I may be a duffer” He paused to let Argyle argue this and when nothing was forthcoming, quietly set it by and continued: “But I do clean up rather nicely.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Argyle said. “But it’ll be the same as with Sandsy. People will know I asked you last minute and don’t actually have a date.”

“Well—” There had to be a solution. “Well!” Oh! “Well we can pretend, can’t we? When is this gala?”

“Christmas Eve…”

“Well, then, we still have time! Not very much time, but you know— a few brunches here and there, a tête-à-tête or two… We can even pretend to talk intimately at the club. No one would be the wiser. And then, so it won’t seem suspicious, we could part amicably in a month or so. Perhaps February.”

“On Valentine’s day?”

“March then.” Why not? It sounded like fun. A bit of intrigue. A bit of acting. He hadn’t tried acting in a while and it might be quite gay to play the romantic lead for once. It would certainly add some fun to his quest for uncovering Waterburn’s deception— and if it made Argyle happy, so much the better.

“You’d do that for me?” Argyle said, his eyes full of hope.

“Of course, dear boy. It’ll be harder to encourage me not to.” Oh perhaps he could even spice up his wardrobe a bit for the occasion. A temporary measure naturally…

“Thank you… I don’t even know what to say…”

“Think nothing of it. I’m quite excited.”

“But er…” Argyle sniffed again, blew his nose in a tissue and then blinked at him. “What should I call you?”

“Pardon?”

“Well I can’t just call you Mr. Fell… That’ll look a bit odd won’t it?”

“Oh, yes… er…” It had been so long since he’d had to make up a first name for himself. He normally didn’t bother as it was usually something disastrous, but what could it be? Argyle’s eyebrows raised and Aziraphale tossed back his bourbon. Oh how he hated being made to be creative on the spot! “Anthony,” he finally blurted, as it was the only one he could think of.

“From the way you hesitated I thought it was something embarrassing…”

“Yes well…” Aziraphale chuckled trying not to sound nervous. “I… I don’t bandy it about. It’s a nickname. My real name is much more excruciating.”

“And you’re nicknamed Anthony…” He seemed incredulous.

“A bit odd, I know. Anyway does it suit?” Aziraphale hoped it did and that he didn’t have to think up anything else. Argyle smiled.

“It suits. Anthony Fell. I like it.”

Well, he was glad someone did. The combination of names sent a queer shiver down his spine.

“Really, it’s great,” said Argyle. “I mean it. Only I wish there was some way I could pay you back for this.”

 _Forget I ever said Anthony_ , Aziraphale thought, but that would only create more problems so he just smiled.

“What you can do is to go home and get a proper night’s rest.” He stood and helped Argyle to his feet. Then took a moment to tug his sweater vest into place. “I shall call you a cab.”

 

This was more like it, Aziraphale thought  a little later as he bundled Argyle into the waiting cab. He had the soft light feeling of a good job well done. And what was more, nothing he had to justify to Heaven even if they _had_ still cared what he thought. Even so, he thought, as he watched the taxi ramble out into the night to be swallowed by the dark. There was something vaguely unsettled in his stomach, like a seed beginning to take root. Perhaps it was the story of Ian. The tragic love cut so short by accident. By fate. By design, for all he knew.

 _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may_ , to quote Mr. Herrick. _Old time is still a-flying. And this same flower that smiles today_ _…._ He sighed, folding his hands in front of him. _Will soon be moving to America,_ he thought. And that was nothing he could prevent either. Nor wished to. Crowley ought to go where the wind took him now that he was free.  But he wouldn’t let him leave without some small token. Without saying goodbye. He would gather one rosebud and place it in his lapel. And that would be the end of it.

But for now he wouldn’t think of that, nor the sad thoughts they produced. No, he would only dwell on the happy things. What he would do. What he had done. He had saved Argyle’s reputation and bum from the greedy hands of Sandridge.

Again that name sent a chill through him. Forgetting something important. Something significant.

What was it?

Well, it would probably come to him eventually. For right now he would head back to the bursar’s tiny office and--

Suddenly it came to him in a flash and Aziraphale clapped his hands to his cheeks.

“Oh, dear lord! I forgot Raymond!”

 

*********

Aziraphale sat in the back of the cab, tired beyond believe in both spirit and mind. The past two days had been something of a nightmare. He’d speeded back home, well, as quick as he might, the night after meeting Argyle, only find police parked outside his door. Inside, Raymond had been panic-y and red-eyed with worry, sweet thing. All he had seen was Aziraphale getting into the mysterious black car— and when he’d called and called and there was no answer had, to use the colloquial, ‘freaked out’. Aziraphale had found himself in the position of stuttering some terrible excuse that he doubted the police believed. They had glared at him and lectured him tiresomely about police time being wasted before making their leave. Aziraphale had let them go on if only because Raymond and, more importantly, Raymond’s mother had been standing there.

She, like a she-bear, had ripped into him for upsetting her boy and taking advantage of his sweet nature. Aziraphale had borne it as was only right since he had left the poor lad all by his lonesome for more than twelve hours, without even a means to lock  up. Raymond had quit, or rather it was something his mother had either decided for him or said for him, which was understandable. Aziraphale had given him quite a generous severance package for the trouble and had almost hated to see him go.

This was especially true on the following morning when he’d decided to go back to being normal and he’d only had the shop open for five minutes before the customers got on his already frazzled nerves and he’d had to close up again. Around the evening he’d thought to dig out The Phone, thrilled to the tiny light twinkling letting him know someone had called— Only to have the pleasure melt away like spring snow on a hot day when it had turned out to be Argyle. Who was drunk again. And rather morose again. Apparently he had called earlier to ask about the plans and, upon no answer, had assumed the worst. Aziraphale reassured him and they had set up a little dinner. Tomorrow, Act One, as Aziraphale had decided to call it, would commence.

Or rather, today. This evening. He had been looking forward to it, if nothing else because it would be pleasing to do something right for a change after the series of small disasters. Then on his way to the tailor to pick up some new-ish trousers he’d had fitted, he’d spotted in the display window of some store or the other, lacquered roses. Well, rose buds. He stared at the small box he was holding on his lap. Inside was a deep red rose bud, nearly white, with two green leaves, so dark they were almost black, curling stylishly from the base. On the back was a pin to fix it to a shirt front or a lapel— and he knew just whose lapel it must rest on.

He couldn’t imagine Crowley would like it. Not the style nor what it meant. Though lord knew that Aziraphale had imagined him surrounded by roses or other such flowers more than once. Back in the day, before he allowed his mind to wander, it would wander anyway. Once when he had been visiting the hanging gardens of Babylon, he had seen a scattering of petals from roses and hibiscus left over from some procession or picnic. They had been deep enough to lie in and oh, he had been tempted to lie there and let the perfume of the crushed flowers surround him. Then, for no reason whatever, he had imagined Crowley lying there-- Crawly then, he supposed. Red hair all a-tangle, staring up at him with vivid citrine eyes, demonic, yes and strangely alluring. He hadn’t felt any sort of attraction then, thank goodness… Just a sort of sadness that one so beautiful was forever beyond the light of the Almighty. Had chosen to be so, which was a concept still a bit alien to him.

Now, of course, things had changed a bit, he thought, stroking the box lightly with his thumb. Not that he wouldn’t like to see Crowley lying in a bed of strewn petals. Now the problem became he was a bit too eager to see it. He almost felt the desire to-- to travel with him. To see the sights of the world, to walk hand in hand down promenades or narrow-laned roadways, to peer at soaring architecture or even--god forbid-- eat a hamburger willingly. And yet the thought also terrified him in  a way he couldn’t explain. Of leaving. Closing the bookshop. Nothing to anchor or moor him anywhere. Not even the mandates of Heaven any more. He would just be adrift in the world.

No… no he was staying right where he was. And Crowley, for better or worse, was going to America. He’d love it there. He could get up to all sorts of mischief. Perhaps even find someone interesting. Aziraphale would support him, of course. But in his own selfishness would give Crowley one thing to remember him by. A rosebud. An English rose, he decided. A symbol that he had not yet been gathered and never would be, instead going wherever he wished, free as the wind. The thought left him feeling oddly hollow, and yet resigned.

All too soon the cab pulled in front of Crowley’s residential building. He thanked the man and paid him handsomely as usual. It paid to overpay cab drivers, and he’d always appreciated the pun back in days when the horse ruled the roads. Only when he was in the lift did it occur to him that Crowley might not even be there. And, drat, he had left the Phone sequestered where it was in the drawer so even calling was out of the question.

Well, it was probably for the best, Aziraphale thought, gripping the box. After all, what would he even say to him? He could just leave it behind with a little note. Perhaps just the poem. Crowley would know what it meant, he was sure. A goodbye. A loving- a fond farewell from one acquain-- fr-- _friend_ to another. Because they were friends. And it wasn’t forever that he would be away. Well, it might be. But they could call one another. Aziraphale might even figure out how to take a selfee. And he could see America vicariously through Crowley. Yes. It would almost be like he was there himself without even leaving the shop!

He tried to perk himself up with these thoughts as he rode up to the penthouse, but by the time he got there his spirits were somewhere around stomach level. Still, it would be fine, he told himself as he stepped purposefully from the lift. He would leave the box and the note and perhaps years later they would meet again for lunch or brunch or dinner when they had both settled from this Apocalypse nonsense and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

Forcing a faint smile to his face he approached the door, raised his hand to knock and it swung open. Crowley stood there, backlit, keys in hand, rearing back a bit, his dark eyebrows climbing over his glasses. He looked good as he usually did. Black jacket, black vest, black trousers, an elegant silver snake belt buckle with gleaming blue stones for eyes. High heeled boots today too, he noticed. Black but with bright red licking the undersides. He was reminded vividly of the ‘follow me’ sandals and just as quickly tried to push it out of his head.

“You knocked?” Crowley said finally, voice oddly rough. Aziraphale realized his fist was still in the air.

“Oh…er…yes. I did…” His cheeks pinked and he dearly hope it wasn’t noticed. “I was wondering, that is, if you’re not terribly busy… If I could come in a moment.”

Crowley shrugged and stepped back, gesturing to go ahead.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale stepped in. He had been here a few times now, but stepping over the threshold always gave him a bit of a chill. This might have been his home not too long ago. Well temporary home. He couldn’t see himself living here, cramming into this space where everything was dark and rather spare. Clean lines wherever you looked. He would certainly be out of place. It was just as well that things had worked out as they had.

 Crowley paced behind him, heels clicking on the tiles as he shut the door and then came round to face him, hands jammed in his pockets. Aziraphale cast about for something to say— something to broach the topic of why he was here— or just, anything.

“I like your boots,” he finally managed, somewhat inanely. “Are they new?”

“Yeah…” He put a foot in front of him as if showing it of, light gleamed off the faint scales. “Heard about a Family First meeting going on and thought I’d break them in.”

“Oh I see…” Those meetings usually went white Anglo-Saxon straight ‘morally upright’ families first and everyone else could stuff it. “Dressed like that I’d be surprised if they even let you in the door.”

“I’ve got my ways,” he said with a smug smirk that Aziraphale certainly shouldn’t find charming. Another silence then and Aziraphale almost wanted to ask if he could come along. It might be fun. Family First didn’t strictly forbid homosexual couples, as they couldn’t, but they certainly weren’t welcomed. They could sit close and hold hands, hold each other’s gaze, flirt outrageously. He could even kiss the back of Crowley’s hand perhaps, those elegant ridged knuckles, the slender fingers.

“What’s in the box?” Crowley asked, pulling him from those thoughts for which Aziraphale was grateful.

“Box? Oh!” He looked down at the one in his hand. _Nothing_ , he wanted to say. _Just a box. Would you like to grab some lunch? I_ _’m_ ** _ravished_** _—_ No, starved! But no, he mustn’t. Crowley was moving to America and he was here to see him off and that was going to be that. He banished all other thoughts from his head and ran his thumb over the box. If— When he gave it to him— it might not be the last time he saw him, certainly. Not even the last time he saw him before he left England. But…it would be the first nail in the coffin.

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley said, sounding worried now. And then in a more lighthearted tone. “Are you trying to propose to me?”

The thought was so ridiculous Aziraphale had to smile.

“Mm. Would you marry me?”

Crowley’s mouth fell open and the color left his face so fast Aziraphale was sure that if he wasn’t a demon he might have fainted.

“It was just a joke!” Aziraphale said quickly to forestall, well, anything.

“Yeah. Course it was a joke,” Crowley said, shifting back a step. “Not the marrying kind, me. Bound in union before the eyes of God. I would probably explode.”

“That _would_ make an awkward reception,” Aziraphale said— and then before the joke could go further. “No, this— this is something a little different. You don’t have to keep it, of course— But I— I saw it and thought of you.” He pulled off the lid and lifted the pin from its soft cotton bed.

“A rosebud?”

“Yes…” He slipped the box into his pocket, and then took a deep breath and recited: “ _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles today, to-morrow will be dying_.” As he spoke he stroked the soft fabric of Crowley’s lapel between his fingers and then placed the pin there.

“What’s that mean?” Crowley said, voice tight. “What’s going on, Angel?” Was he afraid? What could he possibly be afraid of?

“Well, of course, you won’t die,” Aziraphale said, resting his fingers against the rose, faintly feeling the warmth of Crowley’s body beneath it. “So you are a rosebud forever ungathered.” Which he thought would be obvious. On the other hand, Crowley wasn’t as inclined toward literature as he. Not that Aziraphale counted it as literature since he knew the poet, however distantly, and they really did not get on. But never mind that.

“Uhm,” Crowley said. “Not really making things any clearer.”

“It’s a goodbye gift.” Aziraphale felt his own throat close as he said it.

“Goodbye gift?” Crowley echoed sounding hollow.

“So you won’t forget me…”

“Angel, _please_ tell me what you’re talking about.” Crowley had gripped his upper arm now, not tightly but urgently as if he was truly concerned.

“For when you move to America, you silly thing!”

Crowley let out a breath and bowed his head.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“What on Earth did you _think_ I was talking about?”

“ _For fuck_ _’s sake_!” Crowley let go of him and moved to throw himself on the low sofa, legs sprawled out on front of him, crimson soles showing tongue red. “I need a drink— _You_ are driving me to drink.” He snarled, sitting up and pointing at Aziraphale accusingly. Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him feeling rather put out by the whole thing.

“It’s not my fault you assumed the worst.”

“Not my— not my fault?” Crowley rose again, a shot glass miraculously in his hand. “You are the one always in trouble.”

“I am not!” Aziraphale said. He was hardly in trouble! Especially these days. Crowley began to circle him again, heels clicking as he went.

“The Bastille?”

“That was an accident.”

“The Nazi church?”

“I was double-crossed!”

“That thing with Gwain and the Green Knight?” Crowley pointed at him again with the hand that held the shot glass. “Not even you can justify your way out of that one.”

“That was one time and I was slightly tipsy.”

“Ha!” He was out of sight again around Aziraphale’s shoulder, but this time he followed the demon with his gaze.

“But I don’t recall asking a black knight to come to my rescue, now did I? I would have gotten out of it!” Somehow. “You know you’re not _obligated_ to come to my aid.” He straightened, remembering. “Anyway, you told me you were busy and not to get into trouble so you wouldn’t have to make the effort to come riding in.” Well he hadn’t said that _exactly_ , but that had been th gist of it.

“ So instead you decided to come give me a heart attack. Nice.” He knocked the drink back.

Aziraphale was tempted to say that maybe he shouldn’t have come at all, but he bit it back. He didn’t want their last meeting to end like this and anyway,he told himself, Crowley was concerned. Or had been. Crowley had worried about him time and time again, even when he didn’t have to. Even when saving Aziraphale could have gotten him into a great deal of trouble. Even a bath of holy water. Aziraphale shivered at the thought and it sobered him a little. He let the indignation go.

“Well, you didn’t have to, but— I’m glad you did,” he said, hard as it was to say. Crowley stopped pacing and looked at him. More than looked. Aziraphale could almost feel the weight of his gaze. “Thank you,” he said. “For taking care of me. And I’m sorry to have been such a burden.” And he meant it. More or less. He certainly hadn’t been _that_ much of a burden but…

It was like magic, like saying the magic words and Crowley was transformed. The tension left his shoulders, the lines of his face softened.

“Oh, Angel…” his voice was gentle and a little sad. “Aziraphale, I would always—”

“Yes, well, now that that’s out of the way,” Aziraphale said, a little too sharply. He hadn’t meant to but he didn’t want to hear what followed. Didn’t want those words. That confession. Not when— Not when he knew it already. He did. Of course he did. How could he not? How could he have so easily forgotten? Whatever he said, Crowley had wanted— had _cared_ about him since the sixties at least— if not before. Aziraphale knew that if he said the word, Crowley would most likely do whatever it was he asked. Whether it was to give him a kiss, or kneel or burn down the world.

Well, he would like to think Crowley wouldn’t go _that_ far, even for him. Still he would go quite far and that was probably why he was moving to America. To have some space. Some room to breathe. And it was good. It was right. It was _fair_. Especially since Aziraphale couldn’t return this feeling. Though for a wild moment he thought about it. It would be easy, he thought, to cross the space, to wind his arms around Crowley’s neck and pull him in. Then a kiss, simple at first, tasting his breath, feeling the heat of his mouth until lips parted a little further and those narrow hands clutched at the back of his waistcoat. Crowley would melt, Aziraphale knew. Crowley would burn. The thought made him a little dizzy, a little punch drunk.

But then if he did, everything would change. The entire world would change. It would all happen so fast. Too fast. Too uncertain. Too unsure. Who was to say that Crowley wouldn't grow tired of it? Or he wouldn’t? Who was to say it wouldn’t end in heartbreak? They said if you gained a lover, you lost a friend and he couldn’t bear it if that happened for the sake of a touch, even a wonderful one. Why couldn’t things go back to the way they were? One day after another. No surprises. No hesitations. Just— just mutual pining. They were good at that. _He_ was good at that. Easier to lo— care from a distance.

“You want to do dinner?” Crowley asked after a moment, voice still a little rough. “I saw this new Mongolian Barbecue.”

“Sorry, I’m seeing Argyle,” Aziraphale said, though goodness he could use a little Mongolian Barbecue right now. Crowley stared at him.

“What?”

“Argyle… From the club.” And then Aziraphale realized what Crowley must think. How that phrasing might lead him to believe— But why not believe it? Maybe it would help him move on. “I’m…seeing him,” Aziraphale said awkwardly, folding his hands in front of him. “I thought I’d tell you.”

“….Oh.”

“I know it’s a bit strange,” Aziraphale continued, wanting to make sure it sunk in. “And a bit embarrassing if I’ll be honest.”

“Nah…” His hands were back in his pockets and he shrugged. “I’m seeing someone too…”

“You are?” Aziraphale said, surprised. He couldn’t help but feel a little twitch of shock. And maybe a twist of jealousy. He wouldn’t have thought Crowley would _see_ anyone.

“Yeah. We’re kind of… a matched set…”

“Oh I see…” He laughed a little. “A much better pairing if you both match.” And far less worry.

“Yeah— Better.”

“I’d like to meet them sometime.”

“Ngk. Okay— Sure. Whenever.”  Crowley said as if he really didn’t want Aziraphale to meet them at all. Well that made sense if it was some sort of hidden affair. But for the Almighty’s sake he hoped it wasn’t anyone they knew.

Silence fell. An awkward one. As if they were strangers suddenly. Or at least very distant acquaintances. As they ought to be perhaps.

“Well, I’d better get back to the shop before—” Raymond has a conniption, he wanted to say, but that had already happened hadn’t it? “Before it’s too late.” And then a smile. “I hope you enjoy your meeting.”

“Yeah… Enjoy your dinner…”

“Of course.” He wanted to say a million things. Wanted to take back a million things. But maybe this was for the best. He nodded and turned to leave.

“It’s going to take me a while to move,” Crowley called out behind him. “Like… months. Maybe a year or two.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, daring to hope.

“Yeah— So…if you’re ever free…. Mongolian Barbecue?”

“Yes…” Aziraphale turned and offered him a smile. It was like a weight had been lifted. “I’d like that. Very much.”

“Yeah…” Crowley was smiling too a little, the corner of his mouth dipping, even as he had a tight grip around the shot glass. “I’d like that too.”

Aziraphale nodded and turned to go, closed the door behind him. So he had some time after all— Maybe he could hold onto that rosebud for just a little while longer.

 


	6. There My Heart is Also

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Aziraphale is still cagey about any sort of relationship, Crowley has a plan to make it work. All he has to do is to keep his own emotions in check and to not do anything stupid...
> 
> Meanwhile the plot with Waterburn thickens.

Crowley sat at the crowded bar of The Devil’s Playground, nursing a Mojito and glaring at the polished and scarred table in front of him. Behind him the disco pulsed with life. Techno music glorifying the Dark Lord vibrated through the air which was hot and close with a hundred human bodies sweating their way through dancing ecstasy. Or regular Ecstasy. There was LSD too out there, ketamine, meth, the new one hitting the market called the Hydra which made people think they could not only see God but become Them. If not drugs than booze. Everyone was drunk or heading that way. Only a few nervous outliers were tucked here and there with water or club soda.

There was one girl in the corner with round eyes and brown hair that she kept tucking over her ear. Her friend was out there drunk as a lord and he knew she wanted to take the girl home and out of this den of vice and sin. Good fucking luck with that, he thought sourly.

 He glared at the bar. It was shiny enough so that he could just see his reflection if he worked at it. Of course if he looked _up_ , he could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar with no problem. And what he saw was a complete knob, sitting here, getting drunk as he had done every night for almost two weeks. Ten days, he thought with a sneer. Ten days, thirteen hours, forty-seven minutes.

It was pathetic, he knew. Here he was, an ex— no— former— no— _freelance_ demon, sitting in a bar getting pissed because of the freaking pin some angel had jabbed into his lapel. He _was_ still a demon after all. He sure as hell didn’t want to get _married._

“Living in sssin is the whole sssodding _point_ ,” he said to Enrique the bartender who nodded in distracted sympathy and pushed closer a bowl of sliced limes. Crowley took one, sinking his teeth into it and sucking the juice out, the life out, making it a shriveled husk that had once been a fruit. Anyway he knew what Aziraphale had _really_ meant. It was practically breaking up. You go your way, I go mine. Letting him go. Pushing him out of the nest like he needed to find his own freedom.

“I don’t need you for that. I don’t need you at all.” All he needed was himself. Yeah. That’s all he’d really had ever since he’d landed on this miserable ball of mud. Himself and himself alone. The angel had just been— been a good distraction sometimes. Yeah. A way to be lazy. A way to get out from under the yoke of hell and go to a show or a concert or Bacchinal or something.

In fact, the angel needed _him_ more than he needed …needed _him!_ Without Crowley, he’d still be a stick in the mud doing whatever Heaven wanted. Alright well he did give away th flaming sword on his own, twice. And eating oysters like he did was probably nothing Heaven would condone, not to mention nearly getting beheaded in Paris for some fucking crepes.

 _Satan_ , Aziraphale had looked good that day, sitting primly on that stool, all in white with pale blue satin trousers and those white shoes. Crowley had had the mad idea of sitting in front of him, putting those feet in his lap and just staring up at him. A beautiful impossibility in that filthy prison, trapped angel with light in his hair. And then those pale perfumed hands would light warm on his cheeks and he’d say:

‘Oh, Crowley.’

It _could_ happen too, he knew it, he thought, dragging a finger through the juice on the bar to make an aimless pattern. Maybe before he’d doubted, but now he knew. They’d worked together to stop the apocalypse. They’d been a team more than they’d ever been. Their own side. Aziraphale had even held his hand on the bus, just like that. In that moment it had felt like they were one being, slightly damp hand in slightly damp hand. He had felt as if his heart would fly out of his chest and all he’d been able to do was sit there like a moron and try to think of something not blindingly stupid to say.

Aziraphale had filled the silence first. Crowley had seen the idea come over him. Aziraphale had sat up, taken a small breath, his eyes widening just so and then he’d grinned in that self satisfied way  and said: ‘I know just what to do.’  And he had. The bloody brilliant angel had had the idea of _being_ one person. Well two people. Well each other. It was a thought that had never occurred to Crowley and he’d been bowled over by it, unable to do anything but grunt.

Sodding angel. Having all the best ideas. The mind of a schemer. Oh, he looked fluffy but fluff hid edges, blades sharp and keen, always finding the best angle to slice to cut himself off a clandestine bit of pie.

No, between the two of them Crowley was an idiot. He knew he was moving too fast. He knew the sodding rosebud pin was all because of the fact that he kept putting his foot on the accelerator. That he kept moving in to kiss him, to seduce him, that he’d asked the angel to bloody sanctify him. He mouthed ‘sanctify me’ silently to himself, the loathing curling through him.

Grumbling, he took another lime and set it on its end using nothing other than preternatural skill at balancing things. He needed to relax. He needed to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve. Ha. No. Sleeve? Hell, his heart was a big blinking target in the center of his chest that spelled out: LOVE ME in all caps. No wonder Aziraphale wanted to run. Besides which it had taken six centuries for him to even get around to admitting to them being friends, and now Crowley wanted him to admit more in _months_?

“Stupid. Bloody stupid prig.”  He crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, watching the lime, watching his breath fog his glass. Maybe only some things had changed. Maybe Aziraphale would never be able to admit it. Friendship with a demon, sure. But love? A bridge too far. He hated the thought. It stung him, stabbed like an icicle through his ribs, but if Aziraphale didn’t want to admit it or—if he didn’t even feel that way it was…okay.

But what _wasn’t_ okay was Aziraphale pushing Crowley away like that. Not just that he had done it but the _way_ he had done it. Like the angel knew what was best. Like Crowley was just another human needing gentle but firm guidance.

Pompous— holier-than-thou— sanctimonious—

Crowley scowled and pushed the edge his fist down on the lime, then sat up with a hiss as juice squirted on his glasses. Fine! If the angel wanted to push him out, he would go, he thought. He would go to America. Or maybe further! Maybe even Australia! Yeah! Then he’d go to the opera house and eat popcorn and send pictures to Aziraphale and make him regret sending Crowley out in the world!

Yeah that was it. He’d be _bad_. _Evil_. That would get the angel’s attention. No! He didn’t want to get the angel’s attention! He didn’t want anything to do with him! He would just go out and have all the wicked fun he wanted and no one would say boo about it! He whipped off his glasses to clean them, sending a full demonic glower at Enrique who startled, then gave a faint wobbly grin.

“Nice contacts, mate.”

But Enrique _knew_ , and Crowley knew he knew. No contacts in the world could look so real. No contacts in the world could hold _hell_ in them. He flicked his tongue between his teeth and Enrique’s eyes widened.

The darkness _crawled_ in him and he wanted it. Something to grab onto. Something to hold onto. Something definite to _be_. Why couldn’t he be rage? And fire? And—

There was a faint crack as a line appeared in the mirror behind the bar and Crowley saw himself, the yellow eyes, end to end, the snake peering back at him.

Shit.

Shit fuck—

He put his glasses back on and swiped a bottle of tequila that had been sitting on the bar. Enrique seemed to pale and clutched at his neck where Crowley was sure he’d seen the silver of a crucifix hidden under his shirt.

 _They won’t help you_ , he thought automatically, then wondered if They would. He shook his head of that and climbed up the stairs to the upper level balcony. It was full of necking couples, but he managed to find an out of the way spot in the back that overlooked the dance floor. A stoner sitting nearby jerked up and scuttled away like an alarmed spider.

Damnit.

Crowley slung back some of the tequila and tried to calm the anger simmering under his breastbone. He needed to stop doing that. It would definitely get Hell’s attention one of these days and he did _not_ need them breathing down his neck. No matter how brilliant Aziraphale’s subterfuge had been, it wouldn’t take hell long to figure out the truth and once it did, both of them were absolutely fucked.

Fear, at least, was good at replacing most of the anger, even if it made the ice between his ribs spread and chill his whole body faster than the liquor could warm it. He needed a distraction, that was what. Maybe a low-key temptation. Maybe that brunette girl. Yeah. He could probably lure her out onto the floor, get her to dance, have a good time. After that she’d be open to all sorts of sin and vice.

He went to the railing to see where she’d gone and found her standing, gathering up her coat, starting to head out. If he started now he’d be able to intercept her before she got to the door. Of course he would have to use a considerable amount of wile to get her back onto the dance floor but he was prepared and—

“Where are you going?” her blonde friend had emerged from the dance floor and had taken the girl by the wrist. Crowley scowled and tried to mentally will her back out to dance. He’d get her friend to join her later if she could just—

“Sorry,” the brunette said. “This just isn’t my scene. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no…” said the blonde, tucking a strand of hair behind the brunette’s ear, fingertips just grazing over the shell of it and making something in Crowley’s heart go sideways. “Don’t apologize,” the blonde said. “If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere else.”

 _No,_ he thought weakly. _Not yet._

“But you like it here,” said the brunette.

“There my treasure is, there my heart is also,” said the blonde which stabbed Crowley again and he had to take a step back. Damn… that was _good_. He’d have to remember that. He watched the brunette give the blonde a well deserved kiss. The other coat was gathered and the two, hand in hand, started from the club. Crowley didn’t have the heart to follow.

At least it did the fear in, he thought hollowly, going to slump back at the table. The anger too was completely gone, wicked away like damp fingers around a lit candle. He watched them leave the club, joined hands lightly swinging. He’d do that for Aziraphale too. He would walk anywhere with him, go anywhere with him, into Heaven, into Hell, into the fayest cabaret this side of London where he was to be a spangly assistant to Aziraphale’s sodding magic show.

None of that seemed to matter now.

He dove a hand in his pocket to pull out the rosebud pin the angel had given him.  He turned it back and forth between his fingers. The poor thing. It had been alive once. It had had potential. Then it had been cut from the vine and lacquered up to preserve it just like this. Pristine, but inert. The anithesis to change. A rosebud that would never blossom.

Maybe he should give Aziraphale some space.  Just go off for a few years, a decade or so. Maybe drop a letter or a phone call every now and again. Eventually Aziraphale would come around, maybe even come to miss him and it would be alright again.

Only the more he thought about it, the more his gut told him that leaving Aziraphale alone for that long was a bad idea. It was one thing when they each had their respective sides and nothing to worry about save for the apocalypse, now they only had each other. Who knew when Heaven or Hell would make a move? Crowley had the sudden thought of returning to an empty bookshop, or a bookshop occupied by someone else. Of Aziraphale gone just like that. Just like he had been before. And there would be no semi-divine intervention to get him back.

Crowley swallowed and then swallowed more tequila until half the bottle was gone. Only this was a problem… He stared at the rosebud once more, pressed it against his lips. Aziraphale was too on edge right now. Even if Crowley played it safe, Aziraphale would wonder what he was up to, what he was planning or feeling. He didn’t just want space, he wanted emotional space too. How could Crowley give it to him? What could he say?

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He would find a way. The solution was buried somewhere in his mind. He just had to find where it had taken root and nurture it, shout at it until it had grown into a solid, spotless idea. He always came out on top. The universe liked him for whatever reason, or maybe it really was the luck of the devil.

Maybe he should call Aziraphale and see if that spurred anything. It was a complete gamble, a huge risk. He would have to think of something to say so not to make the angel suspicious. Maybe he could talk about his move to America. Yeah. That would do it. He just had to make it sound like it was inevitable, but not so inevitable that the angle would be talking about buying him new luggage.

Crowley took another breath to center himself, then he leaned back, feet on the table with legs crossed at the ankle as if he didn’t give a damn, and rang the angel up. As the phone rang, he clenched his fingers around the lacquered rosebud to remind himself. Carefully. Carefully.

 “Oh, hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said casually as if they hadn’t had an incredibly awkward conversation less than two weeks ago. “Listen, I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah?” His thoughts scattered like leaves in a strong wind and he desperately tried to gather them up even as his heart beat strangely in his chest. Aziraphale was glad he’d called. Glad. Could it mean?

“What do you think it’s all about?”

No, it couldn’t mean. But what it did mean he had no sodding idea. He felt like he’d missed the first half of a conversation somehow.

“Huh?” he managed intelligently.

“Waterburn,” Aziraphale said, a touch impatiently. “He’s been funneling quite a bit of money away from himself, and the Horse and Pony isn’t the only club he’s using for his wicked ends. Not that I can be absolutely sure of course because the other clubs are very exclusive. Can you imagine them letting an MP into the Cheshire? The _Cheshire_? I can’t. But apparently he’s on their role. At least according to Argyle. And some kinky things have been going on there, believe you me.”

“Don’t say kinky like that,” Crowley said, managing to get some of his brain back at the mention of that name. Crowley didn’t believe for a single minute that Aziraphale was actually seeing the guy and knew Aziraphale knew he knew. But yet would play the charade anyway because Aziraphale had never met a charade he didn’t want to take part in. Only the thought of Argyle pulled at him in another way too, like something tugging at his sleeve to get his attention. He put it in the back of his mind for later.

“Kinky is used for very specific things these days, and that’s not what you mean,” Crowley continued, taking another swig of tequila.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said. Crowley opened his mouth. Shut it. Decided that it was really not a good idea to pursue this suddenly really interesting and also disturbing discussion further and went back to the original topic.

“Waterburn… Is up to the usual rich jackass…things. You know, buying vacation homes. That sort of shit.”

“Oh I doubt that,” Aziraphale said. “Maybe that’s what _he_ told you, but he’s from a nowhere constituency in the South. The _only_ reason he got in is because of his Godfather’s influence. On top of that, rumor has it he’ll be up for consideration for a Cabinet member in a year or two. No one with that much ambition and opportunity hanging in the balance is going to risk getting done up for embezzlement and racketeering for a summer home.”

….Yeah, okay, that made a lot of sense. Something was going on. A tiny prickle in the back of Crowley’s mind was sensing an opportunity here, intermingled with Argyle somehow. He held onto it, willing the idea to take root, to bury deep, to give him the idea.

“Unfortunately, I can only follow the paper trail so far. I can’t figure out what he’s doing or even whether he’s funding something illegal or this is hush money. On paper it all seems …what is that phrase? Too legit to acquit?”

Crowley winced. That hurt. Almost a physical pang.

“Look, just— just don’t use slang, alright? You’re not good at it.”

“I am perfectly down with the slang, thank you very much,” Aziraphale said with a sniff and Crowley hid his groan by downing the rest of his tequila. “Raymond has been teaching me. Well… was. I can’t say I entirely miss him in the shop but it did give me a certain freedom.” A sigh and Crowley’s heart ached to hear it. Ruddy heart. He ordered it to behave itself. He didn’t need this emotion to get any worse.

“I suppose it is what it is,” Aziraphale continued. “Anyway, there’s only so much detail I can winkle out about Waterburn’s shenaniganery.”

Crowley groaned at the language. Aziraphale went on as if he hadn’t heard.

“If he didn’t know me, if he hadn’t singled me out, I would almost be tempted to do a little infiltration. It’s been ages since I’ve done that. You know, I still have the powdered wig somewhere.”

“Oh yeah, blend right into the scenery you will.”

“I didn’t say I was going to _use_ it, just that I _have_ it. But perhaps I could grow a beard. Or, oh, do you think he might require a gardener?”

“Angel, you couldn’t grow a _weed_ without a miracle.” Though he hadn’t minded too much. It had been a kind of stress relief at the end of the day after Warlock was in bed to tend the plants, glare the box hedges into submission, then to share a bottle of wine with ‘Brother Francis’. He was sure he’d more than once caught Aziraphale looking at his legs but he’d never been able to prove it.

“Well _he_ wouldn’t know that would he? And if I’m careful then—”

“Let me do it.” The idea was starting to sprout now, tingling through him with a new sense of purpose. There was something here. Something brilliant.

“Would you?” So much hope in that voice that he almost said ‘yes’. That he almost said ‘anything you want’. That he almost said ‘please’. But he held back because Aziraphale didn’t want to hear that. Before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale continued:

“No. I don’t want to impose. You’re probably packing right now and I really couldn’t—”

Bloody bloody America. But never mind. Because now the idea was starting to unfurl. To bud even. “I didn’t say I was going to do it for free, Angel,” Crowley said, leaning back even further and folding an arm behind his head.

Aziraphale hesitated. He was like a fish that saw the glinting hook in the water and thought, for whatever weird logic went through fishy brains, that he wanted to bite that shiny bit of metal but wasn’t sure.

“You’ll owe me a favor or two,” Crowley continued to give that hook a little wiggle.

“What kind of favor?” Aziraphale said cautiously. It felt nice to hear him say it like that. A bit of their old rhythm returning. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. He felt himself grin and let it seep into his voice.

“I’ll let you know.”

Another hesitation.

“Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You know I’m good at this. Practically started the whole ball rolling.”

“Yes, I remember,” Aziraphale said dryly. Then another sigh. “Very well, but be careful.” And then: “It’s rather nice to be working on a project again isn’t it? Almost like things are almost back to normal.”

And that was it. The base for this whole thing. The solid ground the idea was rooted in. Make things return to normal. No. Make a _new_ normal that felt just enough like the old normal that Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to notice the difference. Make the change so gradual that by the time the angel noticed it he would be used to it.

The realization tingled through him and he felt electrified. Alive. Full of purpose for the first time in _months_.

“So I get this information and then what?” Crowley asked as he absently slipping his fingers around the rim of the empty glass.

“Then we visit upon him justice.” Aziraphale spoke with the force of a blunt hammer. He could practically hear the gavel bang. “We show him the error of his ways and hit him right where it hurts.”

“The wallet?”

“The reputation, my dear.”

Even worse. Or even better. Crowley could feel his own grin stretch further as he realized the true motive behind this. Or at least the part of it that Aziraphale wasn’t saying.

“It’s revenge, isn’t it?” For what he’d done to the club probably, maybe even for what he’d tried to do to Aziraphale. It was justice, he had no question about that, but it was also petty as hell. The insidious love that he already felt for the blasted angel tightened like vines around his bones and constricted his heart. How could he not love him? If a demon could love anyone— this bastard would be it.

“What?” It was said so defensively that Crowley had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “No, of course not! I am still an angel you know. Revenge is beneath me.”

“Naturally.”

“This is just divine justice. Smiting if you will. Putting him in his place. It certainly isn’t _personal_.”

“Of course not.”

“And he does need to be put in his place. It would be abhorrent of me to let him go around and think he can do whatever he wants.” And just like that Crowley knew the course was absolutely settled. Now that angel had reframed it and turned his goodness toward it, there was no backing out. No backing down. Aziraphale was well and truly on the hook and Crowley just had to slowly, patiently, reel him in.

“Well then,” Crowley said, leaning back and raising his bottle in salute. “To the fall.”

Of more than just Waterburn.

 

>>>>><<<<< 

 

Crowley stood in one of the washrooms in Portcullis House, applying a layer of scarlet red lipstick and feeling pleased with himself. The past few days had been a windfall of success and he couldn’t help but feel that finally, _finally_ things were starting to turn around. His first task, since he’d been in the neighborhood, had been to lure Raymond back to the bookshop. That had been easier than finding a drunk in a pub as Raymond had wanted to go back anyway. He’d developed a soft spot for Aziraphale which put the kid in Crowley’s good books— and to make it a little less good, they’d come up with a scheme where he wouldn’t exactly tell his mum where he’d been and Crowley would slip a little extra into his stipend. He could tell the boy was a good kid, but with also a healthy respect of what fifty extra quid every two weeks could do him. Sometimes a little bit of evil went a long long way.

After that, some quality lurking in some of the pubs near Westminster, he’d found out that Waterburn and a couple other ministers had plans to go skiving off to the Red Lion to do get in one last two hour lunch plus cocktail hour before scattering for the holidays. This gave Crowley plenty of opportunity to see what he might be keeping in his office.

He still wasn’t sure where Argyle fit into this admittedly, but something in the back of his mind kept prodding him that he could use that absolute marshmallow for his own ends. To what purpose, he didn’t know, but he let it alone, let that field go fallow. It would produce soon enough.

 Crowley lowered the lipstick and regarded himself in the mirror. Black blouse. Black blazer with that damned rose bud in the lapel, which anyway matched the red silk scarf around his neck that trailed like a ribbon of blood under the blazer. Tight pencil skirt which raised just enough questions without raising alarms and spiked heels. It was a bit over the top. He could have come in as a package delivery man or an exterminator. But he wanted people to see him. To see him association with Waterburn. To have them question the man’s reputation. To have Waterburn himself hear about the redhead and _wonder_.

Really, he was beginning to understand where Hastur and Ligur were coming from. There was just something about the craftsmanship of working on one person, wearing them down to the bone. And if, in the process, he could send a wave of lust and/or suspicion through the office, all the better. That in mind he scrawled the number of an escort service which catered to women clientele, with the scarlet lipstick; adding the word: ‘Call me’ and a pressed kiss just underneath it. Hell, it was practically the spirit of the season to throw some business their way. He capped the lipstick, dropping it in the sink and went out, holding the clipboard against his chest.

The hallways were pretty empty. More like a ghost town than a functional office building. He’d only managed to find a couple of humans to breathily ask the direction to Waterburn’s office and they seemed testy to even be asked.   Probably because the holidays were looming over them and they wanted out, Crowley thought as he stepped into the lift and pressed the doors closed on the minister who was huffing and puffing trying to make it on time.

Crowley didn’t blame them. He checked his nails as the doors slid closed in the minister’s face. He used Christmas for downtime too. It was great to get away and do fuck all, while getting points just for being the only demon with the balls to say on the surface during it.

Of course it hadn’t always been that way. He’d been terrified at first just like the rest of them. Only one day a drunken binge had had Christmas catch him unawares. He’d felt raging fear, followed but a sick twisted triumph that They hadn’t spotted him. A decade or so after that the not spotting was growing Concerning and he did his best to sew chaos and discord during the holidays, or at least taking credit for it. After a few years of that he’d realized They didn’t give a damn and had spent a few Christmases getting drunk and nihilistic.

His mood had shifted somehow in the sixties. He’d started to see it as the advantage it really was. A chance to just take a break To maybe casually plot and scheme, but to not drive any nefarious plans since he knew Hell would give him accolades just for shorting out a string of lights. Of course he’d always done a bit more than that to keep from being bored. Bringing Black Friday to the UK for a start. For the most part he’d just hung around in pubs and cafes, talking down Christmas to anyone in earshot and looking forward to Boxing Day when Aziraphale would finally be freed of his heavenly duties to get drunk as a lord with him and bitch about what a miserable time he’d had. Good old Aziraphale could always lift his spirits.

…He wondered what Boxing Day was going to be like this year.

One thing at a time, Crowley thought to himself.

The lift doors opened. He took a moment to casually press all the buttons, then changed the tinny version of “Carol of the Bells” he had been listening to, to the version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” that nobody liked. The floor up here was practically deserted with only a few grumpy interns peppered here and there, slaving away at their desks, unwilling to look up. Crowley’s luck held as he approached Waterburn’s office and saw not a soul in sight. Easier than falling off a log.

Waterburn’s office said a lot about him. It was a corner office with a large window, pictures of family on his desk, a plant in the corner with broad leaves that seemed raised to catch the light. Only the view was of a construction site, the pictures all had the frozen smiles of people desperately trying to look happy for a photo, and the plant was silk and covered with a fine layer of dust. A fake plastic world for a fake plastic minister.  

Crowley set the clipboard on the desk before rubbing his hands and glancing about. Where to start. He had about an hour and a half at most before Waterburn came tripping back, if he came back at all. The office was small enough that he should be able to find _something_.

Crowley grinned to himself, spotting a likely looking filing cabinet, and got down to work.

 

>>>>><<<<< 

 

Half an hour later found him sitting on the edge of the desk, disappointed and annoyed. There was nothing in here. Not even a hint of a personal address. Whatever Waterburn was doing he was keeping it well out of his office, which made him smarter than the bastards Crowley usually dealt with. He folded his arms and swung his crossed leg absently, trying to bully out some ideas. He could find out where Waterburn lived easily enough— and then what? Infiltrate his staff? Or maybe he should try to infiltrate the Cheshire? That was the other club Aziraphale had talked about.

The only problem with that was, it was one thing to spread a rumor of a sexy ginger looking for him once in a while, but if those rumors came more frequently, Waterburn would close tighter than an oyster. Not that Crowley would _never_ find what he was up to because time was always on his side, but it didn’t do for his plans for this to drag out and have Aziraphale lose interest.

“Come on,” he growled upwards. “We’re not even working at cross-purposes here. You want this scumbag doing whatever the hell he’s doing when it’s supposed to be Good Will Toward Men?” Was he asking for a Christmas Miracle? Hell yes he was. The sheer audacity of it sent a spike of adrenaline through him, though he doubted anything would happen. And it would be shit of God to answer the request of a demon anyway when They turned their back on saints and sinners and everyone it seemed. Maybe They weren’t even there at all anymore. Maybe They’d said to hell with it and had Gone…somewhere.

Or They just didn’t give a damn anymore.

The thought left an unexpected cold in the pit of his gut, like a stone of cold fire, eating away at him, like that damn icicle. Every time he thought that feeling would go away, it came back stronger than ever. He didn’t know why he still cared. He didn’t know why he had to care. It would be better for him if she left. Maybe better for everyone. And maybe— if there was nothing left to really thwart evil then—

Wait. What was that?

Crowley slid off the desk and went back to the filing cabinet. For no reason at all his eye had fallen just on the gap between the cabinet and the wall, a small one, barely two centimeters apart and crammed in that space was something that shouldn’t be. It looked like a small black book. Crowley knelt and reached in. It was a hell of a reach and his fingertips just brushed the real leather-- Of course it was real leather, that ass.

 He had just managed to pull it out when he heard the door open. A second later he heard quiet footfalls step inside before the door just as quietly closed. It was too quiet, he thought. It was _sneaky_. Either someone was trying to surprise him or someone wasn’t supposed to be here. Hedging his bets, he tucked the book neatly in his blazer and rose--

—and was startled to be staring at the pepper shaker girl from _La Derni_ _ère Heure._ The waitress. She gave a quiet shriek before immediately clapping a hand over her mouth and backing toward the door. After a moment she dropped her hand and took a breath as if she was about to say something— before her brows narrowed and she looked him over, slowly starting to recognize him.

“Who—” she started.

But then stopped as there were very heavy and direct footfalls from outside, heading right for them. In a hurried movement she ducked back against the corner. Crowley had just enough time to gather the clipboard before the door burst open, conveniently hiding her and a white haired and very Scottish man snarled:

“You’d better be in here you absolute twat!”

Crowley stared, wondering what the hell he was going to say to _that_ when the man blinked at him and pulled back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Er… Just an intern,” Crowley said, scrambling for an excuse and surprised and relieved when a soft brogue came out of his own mouth. Oh, he was ruddy brilliant he was. The lie settled about his shoulders and he clutched the clipboard, trying to seem put upon and stressed. “I brought up some papers for Minister Waterburn to sign but…”

“Yeah?” The Scot’s whole face shifted as Crowley knew it would and he looked at Crowley up and down. “Hell of an intern,” the Scot said with a grin. “But if you want that paperwork signed soon, I’d take it to him if I were you, otherwise you might not get them done til the New Year.  I heard he was at the Red Lion and, actually, listen— if you’re going to see him could you pass along a message?”

“Of course, dear.” He said dear on purpose, wanting to sofent things even further, put the man off his guard.

“I’ll write it down,” the man said, starting to come into the room where he’d definitely the waitress crammed behind the door.

“Please.” Crowley held up a hand. “If I have to deal with one more piece of paper today I’m sure I’ll scream. If it’s not long, tell it to me and I’ll tell him. And if it _is_ long.” He offered an impish smile. “Shorten it.”

The Scot barked a laugh.

“Right well… Tell him in these exact words.” The Scot stepped back and his thick eyebrows narrowed. “Tell him that I’m glad he’s having fun getting himself piss drunk at the taxpayer’s expense, but he has a Q&A in two hours and if he doesn’t get his scrawny arse over here in ten minutes to prep, I will put his balls in a vice and _squeeze_ them until they pop like the grapes they are.”

“I’ll even give a visual,” Crowley said, curling his hand into a fist. The Scot laughed again and Crowley found himself liking the human in spite of himself. Hell, forget about spite. Having someone else do the dirty work was a form of evil in itself. Crowley could appreciate a guy like that. He almost wanted to impart the message and see the color drain from Waterburn’s face.

Only there were more important things afoot. He was not going for the momentary panic but the years of _suffering_.

“Will there be anything else?” Crowley asked, the model of professionalism.

“No, that’ll do. Better get moving if you want to catch him and oh!” The Scot clicked his fingers and pointed at him. “Have a happy holiday.”

“You too.” And it would be, Crowley thought smugly. Maybe not for the Scot because Crowley was not going to compromise his mission for the sake of a message. But that’s what the man got for trusting strange secretaries with ready excuses. He went to the door and peered out, watching the Scot stride across to another room and push open the door.

“You!” he bellowed.

“For God’s sake! Do you have to shout?” came the voice from within. Whatever else that might have been said became somewhat muffled as the Scot ducked into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.  After a second Crowley felt the doorknob hitting him in the side and remembered. He moved out of the way and the pepper shaker girl pushed the door open a little more and mimed ‘wow’.

He grinned. He _had_ been pretty fucking great huh? He had been worried for a second but he’d been clever, as usual and quick on his feet and had somehow gotten away with it.

“I had that tosser right where I wanted him” he said. The pepper shaker girl shook her head, then looked him up and down once more, taking it in.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Because whoever she was, it was too much of a coincidence for her to sneak in here without wanting to track down Waterburn for some reason. Maybe she knew something.  Something he could go on. Humans were always good about knowing things about other humans. Even better than angels.

He noticed her looking around, staring hard at the desk, the filing cabinet, glancing over her shoulder as if trying to gauge how much time she could risk to search.

“I’ve already scoured this place,” Crowley said, knowing they had next to no time to get out of here. “You’re not going to find anything… Except this.” He took the book he’d found from his blazer and wiggled it at her enticingly.  “You tell me your secrets I’ll tell you mine?”

She pressed her lips together,  took one more glance around the room, then nodded.

“Where should we go?” she said. Crowley thought.

“I think I know a place.”

 

>>>>><<<<< 

 

Crowley sat in the coveted window seat of The Sun Dogs, drinking a nice cabernet  and feeling the winter sun lightly warm the back of his neck like a kiss. Zara Rozenko, if that was her real name, sat opposite him reading through the journal. She read silently to herself for the most part, though her lips moved and her fingers traced down the page as she went. Every once in a while she’d snort or raise her eyebrows, but other than that, nothing.

He tried not to be bored, or at least tried not to look it. Instead he glanced around, taking in all that had changed, all that had remained the same. He hadn’t been here since the nineties when they’d allowed cigarettes and he’d sat in this corner chain smoking just to pass the time. Sometimes Aziraphale had joined him and they’d just sat and drank and soaked up the slightly edgy atmosphere the nineties had given it.

Now it was a nice sleek cafe in a style he liked to think of as modern posh. It catered to the hipster crowd from the old Dogstreet Theatre just across the way, and featured contrasting black and white designs. Even now there were people dressed in black, not talking to one another and brooding over volumes of Shakespeare or hunched over laptops banging out soon to be rejected plays.

He wondered what they’d say if they knew their beloved minimalist cafe had started out jammed hip deep with elegant flowery furniture, patterned carpets, potted plants and so many mirrors, people had called it the mini-Versailles. It had also boasted the best crepes and brioche outside of Paris and Crowley was rather proud of that fact.

It had been a tricky bit of underhandedness to bust not only Ambroise and his immediate family out of prison back at the height of the reign of terror, ferry them across the English Channel, help them establish themselves _and_ explain it all to Hell when someone had peeked in at the wrong moment. He’d had to moonlight as the Scarlet Pimpernel for a while just to prove he was causing havoc. It had been worth it though to make sure the certain proprietor of SoHo’s newest bookshop kept his arse this side of the channel.

It hadn’t been _all_ for Aziraphale of course, though he’d factored into it heavily. Partly Crowley just wanted to see if he could do it and partly Ambroise had been talking about spreading revolutionary ideas to England. Overthrowing the monarchy had seemed like a good nudge toward evil, even if it was supposedly supplanting it with equality and justice.

Anyway the English revolution hadn’t panned out. Ambroise had been content enough in the current system to not kick up a fuss and had retired a comfortably wealthy man. The cafe had changed hands a few times since then, but Crowley still liked to come here from time to time to drink the wine and remember the times he and Aziraphale had occupied this little corner table that gazed out over SoHo and talked about absolutely nothing of consequence.

That and twenty pounds for a cup of tea and some lady fingers made this the most ridiculously overpriced cafe around and only people with enough money to toss down the drain bothered to even get a reservation. It had impressed Zara, which was important to him somehow, and she’d muttered something about the GDP of small countries as she looked over the scant menu.

That thought brought his attention back to her and he noticed she was close to the end of the journal. _Finally_ , he thought, shifting a bit. He wasn’t sure yet to what to make of her. She had a non-descript accent, though some of her vowels went broad when she wasn’t paying attention. She drove a fuel efficient mud splattered car which said she was either poor or some sort of conservationist, but was willing to pay for her own drink. Either way, she seemed driven for reasons he didn’t now.

Yet.

The thing that got to him the most, though was how good they looked together. He could see their reflection in the black framed mirror on the opposite wall. He’d changed back into his usual style save for the black nail varnish, and it was alarming how well they set each other off.

 They dressed the same, sheathed in black from head to foot. The only other color to her came from small silver hoops in her ears, from him, the scarlet collar. She even had a bit of a smoker’s gruff throatiness and smelled faintly of clove cigarettes and sandalwood as if she’d smoked in a temple or shrine somewhere. If anyone, he should be with someone like her. Someone he matched well with. Someone that got him in a way even Aziraphale never could.

He could just imagine it, just living in effortless cool, always looked good, apart or together. No little affectations. No emotions crossing easily over their faces. Just an impenetrable wall and will, unaffected by anything the world threw at them. How amazing would that be? How amazing would that look? A matched set.

 The little part of idea that still had Argyle in it wriggled at him, wanting attention, but he was still unsure what to do with it. Before he could prod it, Zara sighed softly and shut the book, her hands resting on the black of it and even that was cool. Effortless. She looked up, pushing her mass of dark hair from her face.

“It’s definitely _something_ he doesn’t want anyone to see. But from all I can tell of it, it’s mostly just a journal. Letters to his wife. Sappy poetry. Haphazard love notes. Like a saccharine scrapbook.” She drummed her fingers against the cover. “Since you found it on the floor, I’m willing to bet it just slid off the filing cabinet.”

She slid the book back over to him.

Great. He crossed his arms on the table and glowered at it. It wasn’t that bad. At least not ‘get this done to prevent the end of the world’ bad. But he wanted something solid to give to Aziraphale. Like a bloody dog returning a bone, Crowley thought, annoyed. Maybe he should have binned the book when he had the chance or left it right where it ruddy was.

“Though he does mention something a bit curious at the end,” she said, serenely thanking her waiter as he delivered her a coffee. No lady fingers, he noted. Or milk or sugar either. She would be the kind to drink her coffee black and bitter and hot. He could admire that. There was something about the inky blackness of it that seemed on the level with her whole personality.

More to the point, though. Something curious. He debated on whether to open the book like a complete berk or let her tell him and possibly lie. Even now she was raising her eyebrows at him as she drank her coffee as if she was expecting something or trying to trap him. That wasn’t going to happen. He was the one who trapped, not the other way round.

“You going to tell me or what?” he said, adding just enough bite to his words to show that he was a bit annoyed and short of patience. It was a bit of a risk since she didn’t seem the kind to be intimidated, and he wasn’t exactly trying to intimidate— just to show that he was the sort of wealthy person who was used to people giving him what he wanted when he wanted it.

“Tell me who you are first,” she said. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

He couldn’t help but be surprised by that. Felt his own eyebrows raise before he could have half a mind to stop them. She’d done he research. How long had she known? Since the cafe? Researched him on the way over? He couldn’t decide if this was easy to find information or not— but in a flash he knew just how to address it. He grinned and leaned back, curling the wine around in the glass lazily as he watched her.

“You tell me since you seem to know already.” He took a sip. “I’ll let you know if you’re right.”

“Mm.” He rested her chin on the backs of laced fingers and regarded him with a look. “Flat in Mayfair, egregiously expensive, a family with whispered black market connections, drives a Bentley and has some mysterious past with Cecil Waterburn.” She pursed her lips for a moment as if thinking. “I would call you a devil-may-care playboy with pockets deeper than he should have who is bored enough to play with the life of another just to avenge some petty insult.”

Not bad. She’d done her homework. He could live with that description. He saluted her with the glass and took another drink.

“And yet,” she raised her head. “With something just a little good in him to be heartbroken over an argument with a friend.”

He scowled at that. He was not _good._ He wasn’t heartbroken either. Sure he’d been drunk and stupid and then drunker and stupider but that didn’t mean that he was either good or heartbroken. He was just an idiot sometimes. On occasion. That was all. She’d caught him at a weak moment.

“It’s not hard to guess,” she said with a smile. “And I’m willing to bet that Waterburn did something to hurt your friend which is why you dragged yourself to his office today.”

He refused to answer that. Not the accusation or the pun. So what if she was on the money? It was revenge. Just petty revenge like she’d said. And that he was buggered for something to do. None of that other…saccharine stuff she was implying.

“And who the hell are you then?” he muttered. “What are you after him for?”

She regarded him, lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to answer him, as if she didn’t trust him. She had kind of a hunted look to her. Whatever she was she was desperate, but why? Desperate enough to be out with him if she didn’t trust him. Desperate enough to act like she had power over him, even when thinking he was powerful himself.

“Come on…” he leaned forward a little, watching her from this angle and that. “We don’t have to be enemies. We don’t even have to be friends. Doesn’t mean we can’t work together to give that bastard what’s coming to him. All I need to know is what you know.” And what she’d found as well, but it was more important to know just who he was dealing with.

She sighed, slipping her hands around her mug and he couldn’t help but notice the silver ring she wore on the fourth finger of her right hand, set with two stones. A topaz and an emerald. Small but real.

“About fifteen years ago, the Green Mills Parish wanted to put up some council estates just outside of Pottersfield.”

Somewhere so rural cows were considered neighbors, Crowley translated. This was sounding peachy already. If he was going to have go sloshing into the countryside to muck up Waterburn’s day, he wasn’t going to be happy.

“They wanted it cheap and they wanted it fast. So they turned to my uncle. He was new in Green Mills. Only second generation.” She screwed her mouth to one side, giving what she thought about that more than words could. Tale as old as time that.. Humans were notoriously territorial buggers when they’d only been in this land since about the three twenties BC or something like that.

 “He wasn’t known for cheap or fast, but he needed the reputation it would give him so he agreed. Waterburn was the parish representative...” Crowley listened to the whole sordid tale. About how they argued, how Waterburn made promises to both sides and broke both. About how Waterburn probably embezzled funds right and left which made nothing any easier. About how at the end of the day, the homes were shoddily made and discovered to be crawling with asbestos, leading them to be demolished. How Waterburn had placed the blame solely on her uncle and the poor bastard had lost his wife, lost his home, was accused of doing the embezzling and sent to prison where he died of a brain aneurysm just two years later.

That was some quality low-grade evil right there, even if she wasn’t telling the whole truth— or at least the whole unbiased truth. No one ever did. Crowley supposed he should be impressed, but he was just even more annoyed. It was all just so… _tedious_ and another reason why he doubted heaven or hell were needed at all when humans could fuck themselves and everyone else over without even trying. He could have literally sat back and, he didn’t know, picked his teeth for six millennia and nothing would have changed.

“I had to sit and watch my uncle get destroyed,” Zara said. “To lose everything he loved. So if I can visit even one ounce of that back on that bastard, I would. For my uncle’s memory.”

It was …actually bloody brilliant, Crowley realized as the implications dawned on him. This would feed Aziraphale’s holy war and keep him going at it. Who knew how long it would take to bring Waterburn down. More importantly, not only would this keep Aziraphale busy, it would cement his confidence as an angel despite what anyone had to say about it. It might even give him a sense of purpose. And once he had a sense of purpose of what he _ought_ to do, he’d go back to procrastinating in doing it. And a procrastinating Aziraphale was a happy Aziraphale.

“But I suppose a man like you doesn’t care much about that.” He felt a twinge of anger off her, maybe even hate, and realized he might have been smirking a bit too much and giving the wrong impression. Or maybe the right one.

“Not a bloody bit.” Because she wouldn’t believe him anyway, at least not without a lot of work on his part, and he had a reputation to maintain. “But I do care about revenge. So long as we have that in common, what does the rest matter?”

She grunted and sipped her coffee, looking away. He knew he’d won. He knew her secret now. She had to trust him with it. Maybe even needed him in some capacity. It was a perfect arrangement. Yeah, everything was falling back into place.

“So what did you find that got you so interested?” he said, tapping the book. He’d still give it to Aziraphale to peruse, but a little leg up wouldn’t hurt. She gave him another look like she wasn’t going to answer, then sighed again and shoved her hair behind her ear before flipping the book open and pointing to the last page. Something was written in what he presumed was Waterburn’s hand.

 

_23/12_

_In Dorset, by the Poplars_

_Angels bring a separate peace_

_26530_

 

Right. Apart from the mention of angels, which seemed somewhat prophetic, he didn’t get it.

“What am I looking at.”

“On the twenty-third there’s going to be a charity gala in Windywine. A country estate turned county seat that Waterburn is attached to,” she said,  giving him a look as if he should know this. He shrugged. Did now. “The gala is meant to be for Poplar House, a home and school for children with learning disabilities that he promised to build _and_ received funding for from 2014.”

“Guess none of that is showing up,” Crowley said as the picture came clear.

“Of course not. It was conveniently swept under the rug. Everyone stopped talking about it. Why he’s bringing it back up now is anyone’s guess, but I have a feeling he’s up to something.” Her eyes narrowed at this. She had been waiting for it. Like a cat at a mousehole. Something to dig her claws into.

“Well, why not go and find out?” He snapped the book shut and pulled it over to him before she got any ideas. She blinked and her mouth twisted to the side.

“How? Trespass? Put ourselves on the guest list? I’m sure you have the five thousand pounds it takes to get in there, but some of us can’t afford to drop what amounts to a quarter of a tank of petrol on a mediocre cup of coffee.”

 On the poorer side she was then, which made her determination all the more useful.

“I’m sure they’re hiring extra staff for the gala. Wouldn’t be hard to slip in and see who he hobknobs with while serving drinks.” And more to the point, he could accomplish something else with it. What he wasn’t sure, but he could see the root of it and knew the idea would be worthwhile when it came up.

She drummed her fingers on the table.

“Extra staff or not, he’s going to recognize you in an instant.”

Oh…yeah. He probably would. Not that Crowley had to be recognized. Delicate balance this figuring out how to pull it off believably since he didn’t want to frighten Zara off. Of course he could always see if he could erase her memory but those kinds of things left… scars when he did it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.” He finished the wine and rose, taking the book with him. She gave him a dubious look as he did.

“Anyway,” he continued as she opened her mouth as if to argue. “You think we’re going to get another chance like this again? You want to risk losing our only shot?”

Her mouth closed again and her lips pressed together.

“Fine.” She scribbled out her mobile number on a napkin and waved it at him. “Call me when you have a definite plan. One that’s not going to blow everything out of the water.”

A napkin? He glowered at it and copied it down on his mobile instead, taking his time so she realized he was doing it. No way he was carrying a napkin around.

“Will do.” He jammed his mobile back in his pocket and caught their waiter. He laid enough cash on the man’s tray for the wine, the coffee and a sizable tip before swaggering his way to the lift. Everything was coming together.

 

>>>>><<<<< 

 

It was snowing by the time Crowley pulled the Bentley up onto the curb later that evening. It was a proper snow, too. Fine fat flakes drifted gently from the sky and piled up in doorways and on sidewalks, drifting on the green and velvet red bows of garlands and things that had been strung outside of shops. A good snow for this time of year. A dangerous one. Even now he was watching a balding man in his mid-forties whose face was a road map of stress, stop in place and just lift his head to the sky. For a second the worry eased and he smiled like he was a child again. It was bloody endearing was what it was. Crowley felt his heart go out to the man despite direct orders not to.

Still, he was in a good mood, an elated mood, so why not. It wasn’t the first time he’d done a miracle. A careless wave and, when the man ducked his head to continue, found a tenner tucked up against the curb, half hidden by a snow drift. Crowley watched him sweep it up and dust off the snow— and only scowled a little at the feeling that warmed through him when the man immediately pressed it into the cup of a ragged homeless woman nearby. Honestly, couldn’t he have brought himself a drink or something? Another wave and the tenner turned into a fifty before he turned his own attention back to what was going to happen the next few moments.

The idea had blossomed as he knew it would. The plan was set in his mind. All that would have to happen now is the very delicate maneuvering to set it in motion. First ofall, he hadn’t come empty handed. He glanced over at the paper bag on the seat next to him. Inside was a round of sriracha gouda cheese from Butterfords, that the clerk had promised provided one hell of a kick. To accompany it, a bottle of zinfandel wine, a little bit fruity, a little bit spicy, the perfect pairing, or so the clerk had said.  Crowley had gone to the little hole in the wall cheese shop enough on and off over the years to trust their judgment.

Those were nothing though. Bribes to get him in the door. The real prize lay on top of the wheel of cheese in the form of Waterburn’s purloined journal. It didn’t look like much he knew, but if it had one secret, it had many, and Aziraphale would find all of them. Finally, the last crucial component to his plan, peeking out over the top of the bag.

Crowley took a moment to himself back into a bad frame of mind before he reached in the bag and pulled out the plant. It was a newish one, from a few months before everything pear shaped. So far it was doing well and decently behaved. He hadn’t had time to prep it and put it with some of the older plants so it would know what it had to live up to, so this would have to do.

“Remember what we talked about,” he said, jabbing a finger in the plant’s direction. “I don’t want to see you wilting, drooping or developing a single leaf spot. I don’t care if you’re not watered for a week, you’re going to look just as pristine as you are now. Because if you don’t—” He poked the pot and watched the leaves tremble. “I will revive you and make you regret it.” Another poke to prove his point.

“On the other hand, if you behave yourself, a sunny little window spot and immunity— for a little while at least.” The trembling increased a little which he took for as assent, and he tucked it back into the bag. It would be easy. Give Aziraphale the plant, come up with some excuse why Aziraphale had to babysit it, pop off for a bit to the Windy Pine place or wherever- long enough for Aziraphale to miss him. And when he came back? Just conveniently keep forgetting to take the plant back. This would give him a great excuse to keep coming back to the shop to see how it was getting on.

Now all he had to do was worry about presentation. He was going to walk in, blasé as anything, drop off the bribes, he reminded himself. Show the angel the book and let him look over it. Then drop off the plant before walking back out again. No attempts at seduction, no sentiment, no asking stupid requests a part of him burned for them to be fulfilled— just a normal evening. In and out.

“Right.” He spoke in an undertone, to himself and the plant. “Your last chance. Get it right this time.”

Another deep breath later and he got out of the car. He held the bag casually in one arm as he sauntered across the street.

The windows of the bookshop were lit with a cheery golden glow. Snow fell in picturesque flakes around it and gathered on the boughs of green garland wrapped with gold ribbon hung above the door. Crowley tried not to think of how warm it looked, how welcoming it would be, how just beyond was the cluttered world smelling heavily of old books and one heavenly being. Crowley tried not to let his mind or imagination wander too much, tried not to think about what might happen inside that bookshop. It was essential he was cool, calm and collected, as if just were another day and the apocalypse was never coming.

He stopped at the door, took another breath to remind himself he had to act like he didn’t give a damn, and strode in. The words: ‘hallo, Angel’ died unspoken as Raymond said:

“Hallo, Mr. Crowley. Mr. Fell’s getting something sorted in the back…if you want to see him.”

Shit. He’d forgotten about Raymond. And there he was, a hundred and fifty centimeters of awkward gangly be-afro’d adolescent human standing behind the desk with the cash register on it. Sitting on the desk was another teenager with braids in her hair. They’d definitely spoil the atmosphere he was trying to create. So what could he do about it?

“Is that the one that looks like a movie star?” the girl said and grinned showing a lot of teeth. “I can see it.”

Movie star? Okay he didn’t mind her much, but still they had to go. There were no other customers so as long as he got them out before Aziraphale made his way in, he could pull this off.

“Right,” he said in a low voice, approaching the counter. “Twenty quid for both of you if you make tracks.”

“What?” Raymond blinked his big honest eyes. “But I’ve got to help close up. Mr. Fell said—”

“I’ll help him. Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, trying not to appear too desperate. He could just miracle them out of the room but the last thing he wanted was Aziraphale popping round the corner at just the wrong time.

“I don’t know…”

“Make a fifty each and you’re on,” the girl said. Crowley wished her a long and healthy life. He took two bills from his pocket and waved it in her direction.

“Thank you,” she said, snatching them with one hand and grabbing Raymond’s with the other.

 “Shaun, we can’t just leave,” the kid said even as he was being dragged away. “What would Mr. Fell say?”

“Learn to read a room, Ray,” she said with a laugh.

“But…” The door closed behind them, thankfully cutting off anything else that Raymond might have said. Just outside Crowley saw a couple meandering toward the shop and a click of the fingers sent them meandering in the other direction. Right. Yes. Good. The shop was deserted. The angel was his. So far, so good.

He could hear the angel’s footsteps approaching and moved to situate himself by the door, ringing the bell as if he’d just come in.

“Raymond,” Aziraphale’s voice came floating from nearby but out of sight. “Be a dear and tell them that—”

“It’s me,” Crowley said, making his way in. Aziraphale’s face popped round the corner. His eyes widened and there seemed a ghost of a smile about his lips.

“Crowley!” And then his face did a complicated wiggle of emotion before settling into something like remorse. No. No no no. He wasn’t losing this. And —oh! Bloody— Here Aziraphale had come to stand in front of him, almost bar his way, hands folded in front of him in the ‘sad but determined angel’ pose. He hated that pose when applied to him.

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I was just about to step out.”

“It won’t take a second,” he said with a shrug. “And I’ll help you close up.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened and his fingers tightened against each other. Shit he was still going to say no. Crowley could see the sorrow in his face as he was gearing up for it. Some kind of great sacrifice. He had to do something to prevent it. Something to shock his system. All at once the Argyle seed sprouted and he knew just what to do. Was it a good idea? Probably not. Was it going to come back to bite him in the ass? He didn’t doubt it. But right now it was the best choice he had. Anyway, he'd already told the lie, might as well elaborate on it, spin it to something  believable. 

“I’m serious, Angel, I can’t hang about here all evening. I’m seeing someone, remember? You might like her.” 

"Yes--" The angel’s shoulders stiffened. "I remember. A matched set." He frowned as if he disapproved of it. 

“Jealous?” He spoke teasingly, watching Aziraphale's face for any sign that he was. The first time Crowley had said so, he hadn't seemed to be, but maybe it had sunk in.

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale said, pink flushing across his cheeks.

 _Liar_ , Crowley thought at him, feeling himself break into a relieved grin. Aziraphale leveled a glare at him, the pink spreading..

“I’m just shocked!" 

“So that’s what they’re calling it these days.” Crowley took the opening and snaked around him to the back, setting the bag on the desk.

“I am! And that’s all that I am. And you’re not staying. I can’t stay, Crowley, I’m expected.”

“I just told you I can’t stay, didn’t I?” He held up his hands. “Look, I brought you something.” He fished out the journal, wriggling it at him.  “This is Waterburn’s. I found it in his office. Might be interesting.” He handed it to Aziraphale who looked at it curiously, but held it closed. Crowley can see the excuse to read it later starting to form in the corners of the angel’s downturned mouth.

 “Especially the end.” He flipped the small braided bit of leather he’d put in as a bookmark. Aziraphale’s frown deepened and he flipped directly to the end. Stage one complete. Crowley didn’t have much time for stage two, so he let Aziraphale read and slunk back to the kitchenette to fetch some wine glasses.

“In Dorset, by the Poplars. Angels bring a separate peace. 26530,” Aziraphale read. A pause and then: “But what does it _mean_ Crowley.”

“Not sure.” He found two glasses right away and slithered back. “But I have heard that Waterburn is lousy with broken promises, especially when it comes to the real estate department. I have some intel that suggests it’s referring to some kind of charity event to raise money for a school that he should have raised the money for ages ago.” He uncorked the wine and poured them both some. “What?” he added to the look the angel was giving him. Something a bit annoyed. He thought over what he had said but couldn’t find anything even colorful.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” Aziraphale said with a sniff. “You’re being sneaky but I am going out soon. You can’t lure me to stay.” But Crowley noticed with satisfaction that he took the glass anyway and sniffed the wine. Crowley raised his hands, palm up in a shrug.

“Whose luring? I’m just giving you intel. Just like we talked about.”

“With wine?” Aziraphale said and sipped said wine and gave him a significant look with raised eyebrows. Clever angel. But not clever enough.

“I saw that Butterford’s was having it’s holiday showcase on. Thought you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“I always manage to forget it.” Aziraphale said, now peering at the bag even more curiously. “Especially this time of year.” He frowned at the bag. Frowned at Crowley. Then sat back and sighed.

“Alright, I’ll bite, what did you get. This doesn’t mean I’m lured.” He lifted a finger from the glass to point it at Crowley. “It just means I’m curious.”

“You’re suspicious is what you are,” he said with a grin. “Here I am bearing gifts and you thinking horrible things. Where’s your holiday cheer?”

“Bah,” Aziraphale said. “Humbug.” But then he sipped from his glass to hide a smile. Crowley tried to tame his own grin as he got the cheese wheel out and set it on the table. A bit of a pull at the twine and the package opened like a flower.

“Oh, it looks lovely,” Aziraphale said. He leaned forward and took a sniff. “What is it?”

“Sriracha. It’s this year’s Christmas special.” Now all Aziraphale had to do was get a cheese knife or water biscuits to go with it and stage two would be set. _Looks good, doesn_ _’t it?_ He thought in Aziraphale’s direction. _You know you don_ _’t want to wait to have a taste_. The angel clicked his tongue.

“Very well. Fetch me my knife then, will you?” Aziraphale said with a resigned air. A flair of victory went through Crowley as he sauntered back to the kitchenette. “And some water biscuits are on the top shelf.” 

He fetched both and brought them back, handing them out with an exaggerated bow.

“At your service, my lady,” he said in that ridiculous scotch burr just to get Aziraphale to smile. It worked. The angel’s cheeks pinked adorably and he also earned a smack on the arm.

“Cheeky. I regret letting you read that to me.”

“You loved it.” Crowley took his glass and sprawled back on the sofa, slipping his sunglasses off to tuck against his shirt. “In fact I think I want to read more. Isn’t it a series?”

“Yes, five books if you can believe it. But I’m not staying more than ten minutes.” Aziraphale waved the cheese knife at him threateningly. “So don’t get comfortable.”

If he hadn’t had the wine he might have flopped on the couch and teased him about it. But he did and so he just shrugged.

“Comfortable as I’m going to get.”

Aziraphale made a noise like ‘humph’ and began to get himself situated. And then he stilled. Crowley pretended not to notice while inside the ice was back. Stilling was not a good thing. Aziraphale needed to go for the treats not look at them contemplatively. Crowley hadn’t even gotten to the favor yet and mentioning it now would look desperate. Shit, shit, shit!

No… No it was fine. It was fine. He just had to play it cool. Not lose his head.

“Not hungry, Angel?” he said lazily.

“Are you really seeing someone?”

Oh it was just that. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and relaxed.

“Yeah. Just for fun, you know. She’s got a nice style.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and Crowley saw something change about his face, as if he’d had doubts but they were fading. So far so good.

“She? A human then?”

“Of course it’s a human. Who else is it going to be?” He sure as hell wasn’t going to be seeing anyone from either side of the divide—especially as both sides would likely want to kill him rather than take him out to dinner.

“Just surprised that’s all.” He pushed the edge of a water biscuit with a fingernail as if he was contemplating eating it. “Well…” He smiled. “Well! I’m happy for you. I really am.”

No he wasn’t. It hurt him and Crowley knew it hurt him but he couldn’t _say_ it hurt him because then the angel would deny it and he just wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ask him why couldn’t they just forget all this bullshit and be together.

But he knew why. He knew. Too fast. Aziraphale would only be ready in his own time and in his own way. This might be painful but they had time. Soon it would right itself. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. He had to be patient. He had to be careful.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Aziraphale opened the book, leaving cheese and biscuits untouched. No, Crowley thought. Eat the bloody things. Maybe he should get out of here. Should go back to the cold sterility of the flat with the frightened plants and fish that hated him. Only no, he had to stay. It wasn’t the right time.

 He remained where he was like he didn’t care, sipped his wine, listened to the hiss of snow outside. He resisted the urge to get up and pace around the room, instead waving on the Victrola across the room. _The Moonlight Sonata_ began to play, because of course it did. Aziraphale slowly lowered the book and his brow knotted. Oh bugger all.

“Maybe I should just head out.” Because everything he did seemed to make it worse.

“No—No please…” Aziraphale raised a hand and Crowley sat back where he was. He couldn’t deny a please. He couldn’t deny that hand. Damnit…

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said. “I’m fine. It’s just… a bit of a change.” He smiled. “But a happy one. Now you won’t be so lonely.”

“Who said I was lonely?” Because that was a hell of an assumption, even if he was. “I have plenty of people to socialize with, you know. I’m not lonely. Not even a little bit.” He realized he was sounding as annoyed as he felt and tried to bite it back.

“Well, my mistake. I’m glad you’ve company then.” Aziraphale sounded like he didn’t believe it. “And something to do. And I don’t mean it in that way so don’t even think about it.”

What way? Crowley wondered but didn’t dare say as Aziraphale was reaching for the cheese knife now. He watched as the angel cut off a piece and placed it on a water biscuit. “I’m just saying you’ve been rather restless of late. We both have been. And this will certainly be an uptake. A new experience. Stimulation if you will.”

He grinned.

“Just what do you think I’m up to, Angel?” And while he should be up to that he wasn’t going to be up to that with a human of all things. The only lips he’d ever wanted to kiss were soft and pink and currently about to sample a bit of cheese.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Aziraphale said casting him a dry look before popping the snack into his mouth. Crowley watched with satisfaction as the angel melted, humming low in his throat as he always did. A good sign at fucking last.

Aziraphale finished, wiped his fingers delicately on a miracled napkin and then set about to read. Bit by bit he relaxed. He sank back onto the chair, raised his foot onto the footstool, began to eat one handed but always carefully.

 For the first time in weeks Crowley felt the knot of tension start to unwind from his own chest. Felt himself relax. He slumped against the sofa, closed his eyes, enjoyed a sip of dry sweet wine with just a little spark of spice.

It had taken a lot of forethought and work, but he’d done it. Only a little foothold now, but maybe soon a little more. And a little more. And maybe one day he could do this without even having to try. To just come in when he felt like it, without excuses, without bribes, and sit in his company. It seemed impossible. It had been their life. It had always been their life. Maybe it was something that Aziraphale couldn’t change. But he couldn’t help but hope for it.

“Well there’s certainly a lot of poetry in here. Some of it bordering on illegible,” Aziraphale murmured. “And plenty of strange little numbers that don’t seem to make any sense.”

“I think it’s some sort of code,” Crowley threw out, and after he said it he was more sure. That was what made the most sense.

“Yes, I think so too. Though I’ll have to get a wiggle on to crack it. We ought to return this journal before he has a chance to miss it. Can’t let him know we’re on to him.”

Get a wiggle on. He hated everything about that turn of phrase including how damned endearing it was. Why him, anyway? Crowley opened his eyes once more and watched him. The angel always dressed like someone’s out of step grandpa, no matter what the era. He said things that had ceased to be fashionable decades since and that younger generation barely understood or believed were real. There was nothing cool or sleek about him at all. Crowley tried to imagine him in dark clothing, leathers even, then had to press his lips together and look away so he wouldn’t laugh.

Aziraphale was as far from a pepper shaker as you could get. He was a salt shaker complete with a rounded bottom. Crowley shifted on the couch, sliding down until he was lying on it, feet crossed at the ankle, glass of wine resting on the floor. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. They looked ridiculous together. And yet….

“He’s also plagiarized quite a bit.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Not that that surprises me. Half of this so called poetry isn’t even his. And the other half I doubt is his. Not with the overblown love notes that could hardly be considered articulate. I mean listen to this. Let’s see, February 14th, of course it would be. To Brenda. His wife I assume?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Well anyway, whomever she is.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Your neck is long like a swan. Swan and long hardly rhyme and I suppose you could argue for an off rhyme but it is a bit cliche.”

“The travesty.” Honestly he’d heard worse.

“And your breasts are like two cantaloupe. _Cantaloupe_. That I want to motorboat. Which is a better rhyme than long and swan but what on earth does he even want to do to that poor woman’s breasts?”

“You don’t want to know.” He didn’t even want to know. Humans. Every time you thought you’d figured out all their predilections, you picked up a rock and there were hundreds more crawling about.

“But here you have a proper poem. Listen…”

He shouldn’t listen. He knew. He should just stop Aziraphale right there, produce the plant, call in his favor and be on his way. Listening would not do him a single damn bit of good.

He listened anyway.

When Aziraphale recited it was in the warm voice, the one like soft honey he could taste on the tip of his tongue making its sweet trail to the back of his throat.

 

“I think I was searching

for treasures or stones

in the clearest of pools

When…” A faint hesitation and he opened an eye to see Aziraphale taking a sip from his wine.

“When her face—” He sounded a little strange. A little strained. Crowley raised his head.

 

“You alright?”

“Oh yes. Just a bit of a tickle.” Aziraphale smiled and patted his throat. Cleared it. Went on.

 

“When _her_ face

like the moon in a well

where I might wish…” His voice had gone back to honey and Crowley laid back down, closed his eyes, listened, let it wash over him, sink into his bones like the twining fingers of roots.

 

“…might well wish

for the iced fire of her kiss;”

 

Iced fire. That word sunk into his brain too. Rested there. Burned like a chilled ember. Better than the ice that had been between his ribs, but also worse. The idea of it smoldered in his mind and his lips ached to try it, his tongue to taste it.

Bad idea to listen to this poem. He knew it. Had known it. Listened on, not even wanting to breathe.

 

“only on water my lips,

where her face…

where her face was

reflected, lovely,

not really there when I turned

to look behind at the emptying air…

the emptying air.”

 

Silence then. There was nothing but the ticking clock and the low strains of Beethoven. It reminded him of treasure, jewels that he’d seen once in the bottom of the fountain in some seraglio in Persia. He’d reached in to take them out and look at them in the sun while the water poured cold and sweet from his hands.

 It reminded him too of the moon. Aziraphale was the moon, he thought, not a salt shaker. High up in the breathless sky, luminous, unchanging, ever changing. The buffer between humanity and the cold universe beyond. Reflecting the light of a sun that no longer seemed to care. Alone in a sea of stars too distant to notice. He wanted to be back then, back when it had been in the desert, or maybe in the carved temples of Greece, the highest floor of a pagoda, the top of a carved temple, looking up, lyre in his hands as he felt the chill of the night and made a simple melody to that steady and lonely moon.

It also reminded him of the time when he’d thought he’d lost everything. When this place was cinders and Aziraphale was discorporated and so far from him he was like a reflection in water. Not really there. Not enough to slake his thirst. Just a distant voice which left him feeling hopeful and lonely all at once.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley couldn’t help but agree but wasn’t about to do it aloud. The angel took a breath then, as if he were going to say something else when his mobile rang.  Crowley kept his face perfectly still, not wanting to give that away either. He knew who it was. Who it had to be.

“Hello, Argyle,” Aziraphale said, voice gentle. Then: “Yes, yes I’m fine. Erm… About tonight.” A faint hesitation. Crowley’s heart lifted and agonizing hope squeezed through him. Was he—? Was Aziraphale really going to—?

 “Listen,” the angel continued. “I know we said we’d meet at the pub but… well it’s snowing rather hard out there and I can’t imagine what it will be like later on this evening. Yes… Yes, tomorrow sounds fine. Same time, of course. I need to close up the shop now, but I’ll give you a ring a little later on. Yes. Goodnight.”

Crowley turned so Aziraphale wouldn’t see the expression that slid across his face that he couldn’t hide. Iced fire. That was what it was. Like a kiss. Only flooding his veins. The kind of hope that stung, the kind of relief that burned, the kind of longing that was white hot and blinding. There was another long moment of quiet and then Aziraphale said:

 “Thank you. For the book, I mean. And the help.”

“Shut up.” As if he wouldn’t do it for free. As if he wouldn’t throw the world at the angel’s feet at the slightest provocation.

“I mean it. I really do. You’re always there for me… Even if I don’t deserve it. You risk so much for me. Do so much. And yet I can’t be half as brave or self assured as you are.”

Was he kidding? The angel had balls of Titanium. He had faced down the apocalypse, all but told his boss to shove it and didn’t give a good goddamn about what anyone thought of him. Nothing could stand in his way. Crowley almost told him that but then maybe that wasn’t the kind of bravery he was talking about. Maybe it was the kind they were both shit at, largely because they had to be for so long. Crowley plucked up his own courage and said:

“So don’t be.”

“Crowley…” An argument in his voice. Crowley shifted on the sofa and turned to look at him.

“I mean it. You don’t have to be brave, you don’t have to be self-assured, you can just be whatever you are. You’re retired now, don’t have to please anyone.” He offered the angel a smirk. Aziraphale gave him a quiet half smile back. He seemed to want to say something, but turned his attention back to the journal instead. Then, almost casually: 

“Are you really going to America?” 

For a fragment of a second Crowley couldn’t speak because suddenly his throat closed very suspiciously and he had to work hard to speak with an even tone. It proved to be very difficult to do with his heart thudding so loudly in his ears.

“No.”

“Good…” Aziraphale said. 

“Good,” Crowley replied, because that was all he could manage. He turned to face the back of the sofa again to hide his burning face.  It was annoying was what it was. One simple word. One simple gesture that he was wanted and he felt like he could fly. He felt like he wanted to fly. To sing. To do something stupid or corny or both. He closed his eyes and focused on being still. Even then, the words the blonde woman had said a few days ago began to whisper in his head in his mind like a half remembered song.

_There my treasure is, so there my heart is also…_

 


	7. The Gala: Opening Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Gala only a couple days away, Aziraphale is still struggling to come to terms with how much he wants Crowley in his life and how much he's afraid of what the future holds for their relationship. 
> 
> With the Gala only a day away, Crowley is still searching for who he really wants to be and who he can be to Aziraphale. Ultimately, all of his decisions are his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 30th Anniversary to Good Omens! From book to radio play to show, the story has been inspiring, funny and thought-provoking and I'm glad it exists and is loved so wholly by creators and fans alike.

It was a gray day. Quite a number of them had been so far. It had been a rather gray holiday season. Aziraphale stood in front of one of the back corners, plucking out books for their quarter of a decade airing and reshelving. A tight feeling that had been with him for weeks now had climbed up to knot under his rib cage. It was a familiar feeling. One that came along as the The Big Day, as it was called, approached. Usually this time of year he was near run off his feet preparing for it. There was a strict quota of miracles and blessings and general good will to perform, quotas which seemed to get higher every year. Sometimes it seemed he was the only angel in the country.

Last year he was even called to a place called Unst in the Shetland Islands. Any further north than that and he’d be in the Atlantic! At least the small fishermen family he had come to see had been kind and had offered him a lovely little meal of pickled herring with bannocks after taking him in from the blistering cold. He had sat with them for a time, enjoying a nice mulled cider and making general statements about peace and goodwill toward men. Honestly, he might have stayed until the morning, but he’d had another assignment waiting for him in Kent, so he’d patched their scuppered boat with a lovely little miracle and had taken himself back as rapidly as he might— which hadn’t turned out to be very rapidly at all.

Of course, there had been no assignments at all this year, and not a single visit. It hadn’t stopped him from expecting one and more than a few customers had startled him to pieces just by being where he didn’t expect them. Which was absolutely fine, he told himself as he pulled more books from their home, adding to the growing stack on the rickety table. He had quite enough to worry about after all, what with the scheme with Argyle and sorting the Horse and Pony’s finances and getting Waterburn right where it hurt.

He tried to build in him a righteous fury at that. This feeling was helped along as his fingers encountered the thin pages of a magazine. Scowling mightily he pulled it out. A May 2015 copy of **Astrologer** **’s Weekly,** proclaiming in a bold yellow font what _you_ could do when Mercury was in retrograde.

“Throw this on the rubbish pile,” he muttered to himself, and did so. Or at least he went over and placed it on the growing stack of that and other ridiculous magazines he’d found littered through the shop. More gifts from Adam he was sure. He tried to be grateful about it, and was. After all, here were many treasures that were absolutely irreplaceable that had been…replaced. Including… He pressed a hand against his chest.

And it was good! He was happy and glad that it had happened. He would have minded a great deal more if he had been forced to remain sharing Marjorie’s body. It was just he would rather not be reminded of it quite so often. The magazines and other things remained like little grains of sand in the back of his mind that he just could not sweep into the corners and forget about. As a testament to his gratitude, he wouldn’t even bin these cursed things but donate them to the club. He was sure the lads at the old H and P wouldn’t mind some new outlandish reading material to keep them company on long lonely trips to the lavatory.

“That’s settled.” He dusted off his hands and went back to the stack of books. “Now let’s get you with the others. Whoopsy daisy.” He picked up the stack from the bottom and tucked his chin over the top. The rich smell of old leather and books filled his senses. He took a deep breath to draw it in. This was home. This was his life that he had build for centuries. More than a few of these tomes had been with him before the bookshop. He even had scrolls of papyri that he was glad he neglected to return to Alexandria— well he’d always meant to, he had just never found the time.

“You will be with me a long time to come, my friends,” he murmured, patting the lowest book of the stack with his fingers. Feeling a bit better now he went back through the main room of the shop. The shades had been left up to provide some light on the otherwise gloomy day and he paused to watch people hurry back and forth. The enchanting snow had turned to sleet, making the roads an absolute mess.Dirty clumps of snow and ice were pushed up against buildings and humans hurried to and fro with collars up and heads down, or, if they were smart, huddling under an umbrella. The sight made him feel just a little bit lonely.

“Don’t be melodramatic. You’re perfectly fine. You’d never be like this in January!”

So he’d just have to think of this _as_ January if he must!

Aziraphale blew out a determined breath and continued to carry the books to the little back room. His harbor. His sanctuary. Except for the last few days where he’d wanted to avoid it. _That_ he had decided was quite enough of _that_. No more moping about or fretting. He was continuing business as more or less usual and nothing could stop him. A few more determined strides brought him into the room and he set his current stack of books with the others.

“I’m back. I told you I would be.” This to Bernadette, the plant Crowley had left in his care, after calling in one of his favors. Research had told him it was called Spiderwort, or Wandering Jew. The scientific name was _tradescantia zebrina_. He’d decided to name it Bernadette, after the fragile looking yet spirited actress he’d long since come to admire. Why Crowley wanted him to care for it, he still wasn’t sure. Perhaps the thing was new and still in the tender stages of being separated. He knew that Crowley was going away for a few days to handle something related to Waterburn and perhaps the poor thing couldn’t bear yet to be parted from him.

“You’ll have a lot to look forward to,” Aziraphale continued, grabbing the spritzer to give the plant a nice misting. “I know the others will be happy to welcome you home, so make sure to grow green and strong. Won’t they be impressed! And your master as well.”

Not that Crowley would show it in public, of course. In the privacy of Crowley’s own flat, however, he could imagine the demon holding the terracotta pot in long elegant fingers and gazing upon the plant with a look of aching fondness. What a fortunate creature to live so blissfully and so carelessly under those watchful tender eyes. Bernadette likely saw sides to Crowley he never could, and she wouldn’t be the only one. This last thought popped in his mind, tickling it like a champagne bubble.

“You are simply _not_ going down that road again, you foolish creature. Why must you always dwell? Put it from your mind like everything else!” He sat on the sofa with a triumphant thump, arms folded. There! He was here! Here were Crowley had rested not a few days ago! Where he had curled up on the sofa, being quietly present while Aziraphale had read him the good and the bad and the _stunningly_ bad poetry from Waterburn’s journal. Where, when Aziraphale had risen to exchange the wine for hot cocoa, he’d come upon Crowley fallen fast asleep. So peaceful he had looked in slumber, his hands curled by his face, brow unknotted, lashes a black fringe on well formed cheeks.

Aziraphale had wanted to brush that cheek with the backs of his fingers, or, even more scandalously, brush it with his lips. He had wanted to inhale the fragrance of him. To take one of those sleep curled hands and press it against the curve of his own cheek to feel the warmth of Crowley’s palm. He hadn’t done anything but stare, of course, watching the rise and fall of his chest in the deep breaths. He had come to understand why Selene, the Titan Goddess of the moon, had watched so eagerly and often the face of the eternal sleeping Endymion. How she had the patience to sit night after night to trace with her eyes the lines of his face and the fall of his hair.

“And so? You’ve sent him on his way. He’s done exactly as you’d hoped. Be _pleased_ with it for _heaven_ _’s_ sake.” He realized his hands were curling into fists and relaxed them with conscious effort, then threaded his fingers together on his lap. After all, this was what he had _wanted_. He had all but begged Crowley to find someone who could give him what Aziraphale dared not. He had made a whole _blessed_ production of it even. Granted, he hadn’t considered that Crowley would find her so soon, which was a bit of a shock. And even moreso that she was apparently a human woman.

“Well what was she likely to be? An aardvark perhaps?” he told himself crossly. She was a human. Zara, was her name. Crowley had sent him a selfee of her and him— of _them_ just the other day. It had been the final nail in the coffin so to speak. Aziraphale had asked for a photograph before Crowley had left that morning, half not believing that it was real, that Crowley could be seeing someone so quickly. And then, just yesterday, came that insurmountable proof.

Now was the time to remind himself of said proof! Aziraphale got up and took the Phone from where it lay on the desk. It only took a few minutes of frustrated swiping before he found what he was looking for. There they were, Crowley and Zara, he with his normal unflappable cool, standing angled against the wall, she with her arms folded and a sardonic smile on her lips. They were well matched. Perfect almost. A matched set, he’d said, and Aziraphale could see it— admire it even. And even though it was strange to think of Crowley with a human, especially considering his age and her incredibly short lifespan— comparatively speaking, he approved.

Wanted to approve.

Would approve if he could get his emotions to cooperate.

“You are still an angel!” Sort of, more or less. “It’s time you stopped being so selfish and and greedy and act like you ought to!”

And right now that meant being grateful he was alive in his own body in his own bookshop and Crowley was finally in the position to get what he longed for. Also to sort through the books so that he would have them all aired and rearranged by the time Raymond returned after Boxing Day. Aziraphale sat himself on the sofa once more and picked a book from the top of the stack to begin his work. Rather difficult as he found it was ‘An Adventure Book for Boys’. A compendium of children’s stories.

Yet another gift from Adam.

Only a timely knock on the door saved the book from an untimely and rather ungrateful end. Aziraphale pressed his lips together in irritation. The closed sign was very much present and one would think those that patronized a book shop would learn to _read._ On the other hand, perhaps it was a good thing. He could use a distraction from his thoughts and to set his mind on the right track.

Aziraphale stood, took a moment to adjust his bowtie and his attitude, affixed a smile to his face and approached the door. He stopped short when he saw Argyle on the other side. The man offered him a thin smile and a mittened wave. Why on Earth was he here?

Oh! Oh right— their date. He’d completely forgotten.

“I’m so sorry, Argyle,” Aziraphale said as he opened the door. A curl of icy air swirled about his ankles. “I didn’t notice the time—” Only, it wasn’t that late was it? “Or did I misunderstand it?”

“No, I’m early. Sorry,” Argyle said, holding up his hands. “I just heard that Sandsy decided to come along too. You know him and the mistletoe.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale frowned. “He is getting rather impertinent with that, isn’t he?” Apparently it wasn’t enough that Aziraphale and Argyle sat close and held hands, no, the other club members wished to see them kiss. Handsy Sandsy was the most vocal about this in his brash, teasing, highly embarrassing way.

“I figured if we went early, we’d have an excuse to leave before anyone is too soused to encourage him. We could say we’ve got to pick up the suits.”

“I suppose that’s as good an idea as any. Let me get my things. Come in, out of the cold. And do you mind pulling down the shades? I’d hate anyone thinking we’re still open.”

The problem with faux dating, Aziraphale had come to realize, was that you always had more to prove. A real couple needn’t fear people discovering their deception. Faux dating on the other hand? Every glance seemed an accusation or a quizzical stare. He supposed he could call it a good thing since Argyle’s friends clearly wanted him to be happy— Aziraphale was happy to show them happiness too! If only it didn’t seem to require so much …physicality. With a sigh he pulled on his coat and added a jaunty red and green scarf for the look of it. Calf skin gloves that he’d had for forever followed and then his hat. On impulse he took up Waterburn’s journal as well as the Phone. May as well have something to do while waiting. Argyle was a very warm and congenial sort of person, but goodness they had so little to talk about.

“I shall return in a few hours, Bernadette.” He offered the plant a parting spritz and a gentle leaf pat. “To keep your spirits up, a little Brahams perhaps?” He put on the waltz in A minor on the gramophone and went back out to meet Argyle amongst the gentle sound of violins. He was pleased to note the shades had been lowered. Argyle stood in front of the door giving him a watery smile.

“I can’t say enough how much I appreciate you doing this for me, Anthony,” Argyle said. Aziraphale wished for the millionth time he had not chosen to use that as a first name. He hadn’t expected it to be in continued use, not to mention catch on! With a smile he ushered Argyle outside and locked the door securely behind them.

“If you ever want to quit, even prematurely, I’d understand,” Argyle continued as they made their way down the damp pavement.

“I wouldn’t dream of it! My word is my bond. Besides.” He offered what he hoped was a cheeky smile. “I find it all rather fun.”

Argyle returned the smile though didn’t seem convinced.

“Wish I could do something about Sandsy, though. He don’t mean any harm. He’s just enthusiastic, but a good old boy. Club wouldn’t be the same without him and we all dote on him even if he is a bit wild when he’s sloshed.”

“Yes, you all seem very close.” It was heartwarming in a way. How well human beings could look after one another. The more he stayed with the Horse and Pony, the more Aziraphale thought it was less like a social club and more like a sort of family.

“You’ll find your place too one day,” Argyle said.

“Oh I’m well situated, thank you. No need to worry about me!” He perhaps said it much too quickly and hoped Argyle hadn’t noticed. “Tell me about your day?”

“Erm… well…” Argyle scratched his neck with a mittened hand and proceeded to speak. Aziraphale paid close attention to every word, nodding and exclaiming at all the correct points. After all he hardly needed sympathy from a human. He’d had a place and willingly left the place and now it was just a horrific yawning void of uncertainty which he had to avoid thinking about at all costs. No good would come of going down that road.

Fortunately he was able to stave it off by being invested in the mundanities of daily life. A few blocks later they had arrived at the pub, and he was more than happy to ensconce himself in what might be called now their customary booth. All he needed was a pint of bitters and, perhaps, a chicken pot pie today, or else a nice lamb curry, and he would be quite content. After the food and drink were ordered, he settled his spectacles on the end of his nose and opened the journal. The code had yet to be cracked, but he had a good feeling about today.

Only he couldn’t focus, not on the journal, not on the food when it came— and it was decent fare. He watched absently Argyle having bellied up to the bar, laughing with some mates of his not associated with the club. It made him feel lonely somehow. He wished Crowley were here, slouching in the seat in his indolent way, the tip of his shoe just a hairsbreadth from Aziraphale’s own. They would chat about the patrons, the weather, the concerts or shows they might attend, philosophy, life— or just sit in companionable silence.

There would be precious little of that these days. Everything was strung with a certain kind of tension and full of uncertainty. It was as if they no longer remembered the steps to the dance they had perfected over the centuries. Or perhaps the music had changed or stopped and they were left stumbling in the aftermath of it. He knew it was his fault and that he should be better about all of this. Crowley’s life went on as if nothing had changed at all. And Aziraphale should be the same. Should revel in his new found freedom wherein he could do and be wherever he wanted.

Instead he found himself missing the security of the old days. Of knowing just who he was and where he fit in. There the only tension had come from the occasional fear of being found out in such a way that they couldn’t vehemently disprove their association. He dug out the Phone and tapped it to bring up the selfee once more. Another tap made the picture focus on Crowley only, pushing the girl from the frame. A third, guiltier tap returned the photograph to normal. Still his gaze lingered on Crowley.

“Is that Cec’s diary?” Argyle’s voice startled him so that he nearly dropped the Phone into his beer. His face flushed hot and he looked at the journal that lay pressed open by his arm.

“Erm… ah… i-is it?” Aziraphale said as he frantically tried to cobble together some excuse as to why he had it. “A-are you certain? I mean it could be anyone’s.”

“Pretty sure. Looks like his hand writing.” Argyle scooted the book closer to himself and Aziraphale resisted the temptation to snatch it back. That would _certainly_ look suspicious. He watched as Argyle flipped through the pages, flexing his fingers on his lap and trying to think up some sort of plausible lie or explanation as for why he had it. Naturally he could tell the man the whole sordid truth, but Argyle had been hurt enough.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, a hand to his cheek and perhaps speaking a bit too loudly because several people looked at him. He pretended not to notice. “Oh dear! Yes! Er, I wasn’t sure _what_ it was until someone _erm_ drew my attention toward it.” He managed a smile. “Good thing too because otherwise it might have remained hidden where it was forever. I’ve been looking for the owner but I’m afraid I’ve gotten so wrapped up in the poetry that it simply slipped my mind. Deary me.” A nervous titter escaped him that he hoped came off as charming.

“Not surprised it’s poetry,” Argyle said. A wistful smile lifted his cheeks and his tone had dropped in what was by now a familiar way. Aziraphale took a sip of beer to brace himself for the incredible wave of loneliness Argyle was experiencing as well as the incredible irritation of hearing Waterburn’s praises sung yet again.

“Our Cec has an eye for poetry.”

“How astonishing,” Aziraphale said, trying not to let the wryness seep into his voice. While he had to admit the man had an eye for _other_ people’s poetry while his own was severely lacking.

“He took a some courses in literature when he was in Uni, you know. Brilliant about all that sort of thing. I’m not a very good reader, me. Man like him shouldn’t have even given me the time of day.”

“Argyle—” Aziraphale said sternly as he had said a dozen times and would a dozen more. “You have plenty to offer someone who deserves you.”

“’Cept he _did_ give me the time of day, you see?” Argyle persisted. “And didn’t look down on me for my poor reading. We watched movies based on the books instead so we’d have something to talk about. You’d be amazed what all books are made into movies these days.”

Corrupted and made into monstrosities perhaps. On the other hand, he preferred books were the ones that recieved horrific adaptations than the miseries that theater went through.

Argyle went on and Aziraphale found himself tuning the poor man out yet again as details of their cozy dating life spilled forth like water from a storm drain. It was all cuddling on sofas and watching movies with familiar titles like _Les Miserables_ and titles he hadn’t even heard of like _The Dead Poet_ _’s Society_ , which sounded like some sort of kitschy horror. He wondered if Crowley had seen it. Probably had invented it, knowing him.

He found his gaze drifting again to the selfee. The way the demon stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall, eyes hidden as always behind those dark glasses. What would it be like to do the same, he wondered. To curl up on the sofa and watch a movie. Oh they had watched many things side by side. They’d been to the theater countless times and even a few movies, always in public however. What would it be like in a more intimate setting? Would Crowley’s hand find his in the dark? Would their fingers slide together? Would he lean in once more, arm sliding over the back of the sofa, breath tickling Aziraphale’s ear as he said something particularly stirring?

He sipped his beer to cool his flushing face, only it did nothing but warm the blood that went through him, spreading like fingers or vines perhaps. It wouldn’t be— terrible— to be in such a moment with him. To seek out that intimacy he had thought of for far longer than he cared to admit.

“Handsome bloke, your friend,” Argyle said, the direct statement worming its way into his musings.

“Hm? Yes, he is,” Aziraphale said absently. “Not that I know him well, of course. Barely even. He is _quite_ the looker.” Well, anyone could see that, couldn’t they? “Impeccable calves too. You wouldn’t think that would be such a feature, but let me tell you that Burbage couldn’t keep his eyes off them and who could blame him.” Not to mention he’d worn his hair longer then, as was the fashion, and Aziraphale had had the brief, scandalous thought of wanting to run his fingers through it.

“Known him long?”

“You could say that.” And it was strange really now that he thought about it. You would think you would grow bored with someone having known them for so long. Humans certainly did. Crowley, too, was always shifting, changing, rearranging himself. Every decade or so it was as if he shed his skin and became someone new. Perhaps right now he was shedding his skin again, except Aziraphale had caught him in the middle and when he emerged—well— who knew? The prospect was exciting.

“You should ask him out,” Argyle said.

“Yes…” Aziraphale murmured, still half in fancy. Then the words caught up. “What? No! Absolutely not.” The very idea! Going out. To meals, and shows, and staying in—just like they always had except with the idea that it was something official—that touches could be more than just forbidden desires or furtive things.

“Come on, mate.” Argyle nudged him with an elbow. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He could lose him for good, that’s what could happen. He’d seen great friends become great lovers and then part, bitter toward one another. Perhaps it would turn out Aziraphale wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps it would turn out they had irreconcilable differences. Perhaps they would realize that wanting was not the same as having. And then what? They would separate and that dreadful tension would be back three fold and he would have nothing whatever left to look forward to. Just long gray days, watching humanity pass him by and wishing he’d never taken the foolish step to begin with.

“I am not interested,” Aziraphale said, hands flat on the table. “And, as you can see, he’s already taken.” He gestured to the Phone. Perfect. The Matched Set. The Truth? Well, possibly not. If he were to be honest with himself and really thought of it and everything he knew about Crowley, he’d be willing to bet it was a lie. That him ‘seeing someone’ had been meant to placate Aziraphale, to make him more comfortable.

It irritated him as much as he appreciated it. More than that, it meant that Crowley was searching for that connection too. That _feeling_ they’d had with one another— That somehow, despite Heaven and Hell and everything in between, that just existing in that moment felt like— there was no where else he’d rather be.

“I Just want my friend back.” The words came out more frustrated than he’d intended and honestly he hadn’t even known they were there. They’d just bubbled out of his lips with a mind of their own. Argyle gave him a look of aching sympathy that he couldn’t meet for long and then murmured:

“Me too.”

Though whether he was speaking of Waterburn or his Ian, Aziraphale didn’t know. He sighed and put a hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to offer what comfort he could. Outside the snow had turned to sleet and Aziraphale listened to it tapping against the window. He would call Crowley this evening, he thought, and pretend that nothing was amiss and they were just like they always had been. Perhaps if he pretended hard enough, it would come true.

In the mean time, it was best to change the topic.

“Right.” Aziraphale shut Waterburn’s journal and pulled it back to himself. “I’ll make sure this is returned properly. In the meantime, we have a gala to attend in, goodness two days now.” How the time flew. “We should make final plans to our entrance.”

Argyle flushed a little and pulled at his jumper.

“D’you really think we should? I mean it seems a bit much.”

“It’s only for one night, dear boy. We’re there to show everyone just how lovely and happy and attached you are! So we must make them _believe_ it. And trust me I know a thing or two about presentation.”

“Well…” Argyle rubbed the back of his neck. “If you’re sure.”

He wasn’t really. It might very well backfire. But if it took their mind off things then, by God, he was willing to try.

 

>>>><<<< 

Crowley flopped on the king sized bed, hands behind his head on the feather pillows, making sure to put his still shoe clad feet on the gold eiderdown duvet. This was the biggest room the Green Apple Inn had to offer and it wasn’t much— a massive bed, a massive flatscreen television on the wall over an antique bureau that he could reach out and touch with his foot if he stretched, a plush blue chair and an en suite bathroom with a whirlpool tub that took up most of the floorspace.

You couldn’t really expect much better in a small village like this, right in the middle of the countryside. There were bigger inns at the next town over and ten minutes up the road, except this one was the closest to Windywine and already packed to the gills with upper-middle class patrons that had dreams of finding connections or being seen at the Gala. All the rich knobs had rooms on the estate already, of course, and the greatest irony was that they didn’t have to pay for it.

It took a little series of complex miracles to even get him this room. A booking changed here, a flat tire there, someone with an unfortunate case of food poisoning who was recovering well at local hospital but would probably _not_ try the veal again if they could help it. Getting into said Gala was _another_ bit of tricky business. The staff of the Gala had been personally handpicked by Waterburn himself and attendees had RSVP’d months in advance. It wouldn’t be hard to replace any one of them, but any small hiccup could raise Waterburn’s hackles and he’d work harder to cover up whatever he was doing.

He _could_ try to force the information out of him with a burst of demonic power, but some humans were stronger-willed than others. Not that Crowley _couldn_ _’t_ break him if he wanted, it would just take a lot more than he had in him to try. They’d decided then that Zara would find the guest list and that they would take the place of one of the middle-class hopefuls on it. He’d be in disguise, of course, and that combined with the fact that Waterburn probably wouldn’t look too closely at the peasants, meant they’d have relative freedom to snoop. He just had to wait for her to get back.

Bored then by the silence, he turned on the TV. He clicked through the channels until he found an old episode of Doctor Who without _too_ egregious a use of green bubble wrap, then dialed up room service on the old white and gold telephone. They claimed it was vintage, but he knew it probably wasn’t any older than the ‘70s if that. He managed to ring out a few moments entertainment by asking the contents of every item on the room service menu before getting bored of that too and hanging up without ceremony.

Waiting—

He never did much good with waiting.

Getting up he sauntered over to threw open the French windows and let the chill breeze come swooping in. The heater kicked on with a groan trying to keep  up with the frigid December air. Crowley stepped out onto the balcony which was very much surprised to find itself in sudden existence and rested with crossed arms on the ice cold balustrade. He could see the lights of Windywine in the distance and more if he tried. Soon they would be doing all James Bond-y things in there, sneaking around, looking for clues, trying to find a way to give Waterburn his comeuppance. It wouldn’t be difficult to get enough on the man so that he went to prison or lost his job or whatever and everyone would be pleased. A good job sneakily done.

It made his skin crawl.

He was a demon. He wasn’t supposed to be helping out fomenting peace and justice and all that. At least not outside of the Arrangement which was pretty much defunct. Of course he wanted to make the rat bastard suffer, and at the end of the day, it was for Aziraphale’s sake, but he was starting to feel a little claustrophobic, a little antsy. He wanted to get out and _do_ something. The world was his oyster, except right now it seemed like empty shells on a plate.

That was the most annoying thing out of all of this, he thought bitterly. He had always imagined he’d be happier once he got free of hell, if ever he did. That he wouldn’t have to listen to anyone or be concerned about making reports. Just freewheeling evil whenever he felt like it. Except you knew where you stood when you were in hell. You knew what you were meant to do and you knew your quota. You knew, more or less, what to expect. And now there was just…uncertainty. He was starting to wish the Apocalypse had never almost happened.

A snuffling black shape just outside the glow of a street lamp caught his attention. A rat. Not as big as the ones you got in London. Pretty thin, actually, and rooting around for food.

“Oi,” Crowley said down at it. “Mate. Up here.” He whistled and the rat looked round before craning its head upward. Crowley cocked his hips to the side to give a striking pose and gave the rat a nonexistent bullet from an impressive finger gun. “Place called Tina’s Bakery seems to have developed a chink in the wall, big enough for a rat, if you get me. Do you know where it is?”

The rat squeaked an affirmative.

“Good. They should have a whole meal or two ready to go. Go get it. Hey, make it a holiday for the whole family.” He smirked as the rat scurried off with a grateful squeak. Too bad, so sad, there went all the catering. Feeling better he went and flopped back on the bed, leaving the windows wide open. He remembered with a click of the fingers to make the chink appear and maybe the fridges to be mysteriously left open too before folding his hands behind his head.

He just had to be patient, he reminded himself. Maybe he could tempt Aziraphale to go to Paris with him after all this was over. Or Tokyo. Maybe they could scare up some mummies in Egypt and frighten the piss out of some tourists. That was always good for a laugh and Aziraphale did like liberating some ancient papyri.

“Since, well, no one else is reading it, are they?” Crowley mimicked in a high tone that would earn him an almighty frown if the angel had heard it.

Yeah, he just had to get inventive that was all. Once Aziraphale got the burst of righteousness out of his system, he’d be good to go and they could— they could— do something. Go out. Be just — them in the world. The thought was as liberating as it was terrifying.

“Well, well, well,” the Doctor said and Crowley looked up to find the character staring straight at the camera with wide blue eyes. A chill went through him that had nothing to do with the wind, and he clicked off the telly. It didn’t turn back on and there was no dread or foul presence in the air. After a moment the knot that had tightened in his chest unwound itself. It was too soon for Hell to be after him. And anyway, even if they were, they wouldn’t poke their heads out of the ground this time of the year.

“It’s bad enough without you being an idiot,” Crowley told himself. “Don’t _bring_ trouble on yourself.”

With a grunt he got up from the bed to help himself to one of the now complimentary small bottles of wine from the mini fridge and thumbed through the tourist brochures, absently changing the maps on them. Nothing big. Just a road change here, a u-turn there, sending some poor sod off to a sheep pasture out in Devon if they drove that far. Anyone that didn’t use a GPS this day and age was asking for trouble.

He was actually kind of proud of himself. Since putting a few hours distance between himself and the angel, he’d calmed the Heaven down and managed to get some fucking perspective. No wonder Aziraphale kept wanting to put distance between them. He’d been a mess, going in seventeen directions at once and not at all sure what road to take. Wanting to be in the angel’s life with a kind of desperate clinginess, as if he would be forgotten or cast aside at the slightest provocation.

Asking to be _sancitified_.

Crowley sneered at himself. As if he wanted to be. If God THEMSELVES came down and _begged_ him to be sanctified he _might_ consider it before dumping a bucket of fish guts over THEIR head and running like Heaven.

It was no wonder the rage kept coming up in little startling fits. He was being an absolute tool. _Now_ he was cool. He was chill. He just had to do this thing and wait for Aziraphale to come to him. It would only be a matter of time now that he’d gotten a proper foothold back in the bookshop with the plant and the wine and the cheese. Only a matter of time for Aziraphale to ring him up for a picnic or a dinner or feeding the ducks. Crowley might even _consider_ that too. The angel no longer held his heart in his white strong fist.

And it was about bloody time too.

There was a knock on the door. Crowley draped himself on the nearby chair, one leg on the floor, the other on the bed and guzzled some wine. When he was sure he looked appropriately indolent he said:

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Zara said.

“Come in.”

The door clicked open and she appeared, bringing with her the scents of the hallway, a kind of stale floral mixed with antique wood, and her own mix of leather and expensive, for her price range anyway, perfume. She raised her eyebrows at him then shivered, rubbing her arms.

“Brrrr— It’s cold as hell in here,” she said, crossing the room to close the window. “How do you stand it.” A pause and then: “Has there always been a balcony?”

He shrugged to her question which she didn’t need answering anyway. He watched her give a little shrug, accepting the impossible as something she’d just overlooked, and moving on. Humans were so easy like that these days. It wasn’t so long ago that any unusual occurrence would be met with thoughts of fright or witchcraft. Of course before that it was the will of the Gods so another shrug and move on. These days the preternatural could be right under their noses and they’d never even know.

“I got the list,” Zara said. She handed it to him before nicking her own bottle of wine they were never going to pay for and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Had to do a little breaking and entering, but I managed it.”

“You’re a woman of many talents,” he said, suitably impressed. She smirked and raised her wine bottle at him.

“Cheers.”

She didn’t even care about it either which was even better. If Aziraphale were even a little like her then all of this would be easier. Both of them would know what they wanted and would get it without all the equivocating. He tried to imagine Aziraphale dressed like her, all dark leather and pierced ears. The resulting mental image made him wish he’d never go down that road. Also now Zara was returning his gaze as if wondering why she was being stared at.

“Just thinking,” he said to the unspoken question. He flipped through the list, seeing name after name. It was even color coded, the stuck up bastard. The names of the highest contributors in gold while the lower ones had to be content with pale silver or simply cheap black. That was a level of snobbery that would infect people with the smallest jabs of pride and/or envy or resentment and send a wave of low-grade evil rolling throughout the evening. Waterburn would make an impressive demon.

“I still don’t understand the point of this,” Zara said. “Finding someone to impersonate… It’s too complicated. Even if you could get them not to show up, we have less than twenty-four hours to do it. And what if they’re known?”

That was a good point. He decided to distract her as he thought about it with a little thing he’d noticed about her.

“You speak French,” he said in French. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. It wasn’t very noticeable, only on occasion her words would go softer or rounder than they needed to be or there was a certain slight intonation.

“Yes,” she replied with a perfect accent which he guessed meant she still spoke frequently. “I grew up in Nice.”

“Great place. Great beaches. They have a good oyster bar.” Had Aziraphale been there? Probably. He probably also wouldn’t mind going again. Crowley made a mental note to remind the angel of that fact later.

“Thank you. I designed them myself.” She leaned forward. “Now focus. What are we going to do? Sneak in later perhaps? Try again with the staff?”

Both options were too risky. He saw that now. There was a _third_ option that he hadn’t thought of until just now. He remembered at the last moment to actually grab a pen and scribbled in two more names at the bottom of the list, matching the calligraphy perfectly before handing it back to her. Her eyebrows climbed even higher.

“Antoine and Zira Serpent?”

“Seierpan,” he said, giving it the French pronunciation. “Think of it. You speak French. I speak French. We’re in silver which means no one’s ever heard of us but we’ve donated enough money not to insult, and if anyone asks us questions we can’t answer then we can just pretend we didn’t understand them.”

“And if they speak French?”

“Same thing. Have you ever heard of an Englishman _actually_ being able to pronounce French the right way?”

She gave him a wry smile, then a wrinkle formed between her brows.

“It’s hard to believe. You wrote it so quickly… Only, how…?”

“Magic.” He said with a grin. Her look didn’t fade from mildly concerned and just to stave off doubt, he held out a hand. “I’ll show you, hand me one of those notepad things.” She did and he repeated the names, letting her watch this time, hearing her soft intake of breath.

“Amazing. You are a man of hidden talents.”

“You should see me when I get going.”

“ I assume you’re going to pay the cover fee?”

“Yep.” And probably donate a huge amount on top of it to show Waterburn up and to see his face when they took it away. She nodded and ran a hand through her hair.

“I just hope my dress will fit the sudden rise in status.”

“Here.” He dug out a wad of money from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the bed beside her. “Treat yourself to a new one. Just make sure it’s a few towns over.”

Zara took up the money and frowned at it. He watched her thumb through it as if wondering if it was fake and saw the expressions play over her face. She wasn’t sure about this. Wasn’t sure about him. He wasn’t too worried because he didn’t exactly need her, she just made things easier. Even if she wanted to end things now it would be fine so long as she didn’t get in the way. Anyway he had the feeling that she was in too deep herself to turn back now.

“You know,” she said quietly. “He can ruin you, no matter how safe you think you are. He’s done so before to wealthier men.”

He shrugged. What could Waterburn even take from him? Nothing important. It might be fun to see him try and fail. He smirked at the thought. Then he caught Zara’s gaze and his smirk faded. She had been giving him a calculated look, but that expression had changed into something warmer and a faint smirk had caught the corner of her mouth.  He’d had enough experience in the micro-expressions of humanity to know where that look was heading.

“What?” he grumbled.

“I was just thinking how easy it is for love to make fools of us all.” She said it tenderly in French, just to drive the nail home he was sure. “It reminds me of a certain story about a wise king seeing something precious in the moonlight and what he risked for it.”

 He scowled at her.

“I’m doing this because of vengeance,” he hissed. “And because I’m bored. Not because of-- that.” It _was_ love, of course, and he would fully admit it to himself, but bless it he had an _image_ to maintain! If he _had_ to be a demon who was an absolute idiot for an angel, he could _at least_ remain a demon about it. Besides which, that story had a really horrible ending and he’d rather not be associated with it.

“Mmhm.” She rose. “I should go rest, and pray that this doesn’t fall through horribly. And in the meantime.” She gathered up the list. “Return this to its rightful place.” 

He only just cut himself off from telling her not to. The last thing he wanted was THEM peeking THEIR big noses in. On the other hand, he thought with a twinge of bitterness, THEY probably wouldn’t care enough.

“It’ll be fine,” he said. He’d make sure of it. Zara would get out of here without a scratch on her name even if they did fail. Not that it was a _good_ thing because something something insert evil purpose here he couldn’t be bothered to define right now.

“I hope so.” She rose and gave him another smirk. “Good night.”

He was surly enough not to return the pleasantry, especially since she started to hum the song associated with that story as she went out the door.

“Shut it!” he snapped. She laughed as she shut the door and he felt even more disgusted with himself. He should be inspiring _terror_ or at the very least mild discomfort rather than than jollity. Damn it all. After this he was really going full bore with this whole demon thing before he lost himself.

Right now, he could distract himself by throwing an outfit together for tomorrow night. He turned on the radio to heavy metal to set the mood, then stood in front of the abruptly full length mirror. Let’s see. Nothing Christmassy, but nothing that would make them want to kick him out either. Something a _vant garde_ then. No, something so hideously _avant garde_ that people would be practically giving themselves fits trying to convince themselves they liked it. He was French, after all.

Crowley spent the better part of an hour cycling through outfits, matching this and that, trying to find the most bizarre combination. The required dress for men was a tailcoat and bowtie-- so he could go with a slinky dress in shiny fabric and make everyone guess his gender, that was always fun. Especially when he added a little stubble. Maybe  he could work with the tail coat too. Would having nine tails that moved of their own free will be too much? Well, maybe that _seemed_ to move. He’d seen enough to know how situations like _that_ could end up.

Maybe man on top woman underneath? Or see through trousers?

After some contemplation he ended up with a black tail coat lined with spikes with equally thorny tails, a blood red waistcoat without a shirt underneath to show off a few coppery curls, and a red bow tied in front of it to signify the bowtie, a micro skirt, stockings and nine inch heels that would fill all genders with a kind of wincing envy. He looked horrifically stylish -- what a demon on the town really should look like.

Yeah, this would be his new look. He wasn’t just passing for human anymore, he was a fucking unsheathed weapon. Humanity would be both terrified and turned on and wouldn’t have any idea what to do with either. He would either scare humans into THEIR arms or lead them singing into hell. He made his lips scarlet to complete the effect and then lolled out his tongue in a hiss, making it longer, making it forked.

_Look out, worms_ , he thought. _Here I--_

His mobile rang, Aziraphale’s ring tone floating through the air. He sighed, frustrated. Damnit, angel. Couldn’t he just let him have this? Two seconds of demonic self indulgence? Crowley was almost tempted to ignore it. To pretend he hadn’t heard. He had been right in the middle of a thing here. With a grunt he grabbed the mobile from the nightstand and flopped on the bed--

Only to end up feeling like a hedgehog on its back but a _cool_ hedgehog so he would worry about that later. Instead he put the mobile to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Hello, Crowley, it’s me.”

“I know it’s you. Something happen? Find anything?”

“No… nothing. Just a lecture on the man’s movie tastes.” A sigh. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the _Dead Poet_ _’s Society_.”

He thought. “No. Zombie movie?”

That earned him a chuckle and he tried to stop his own smile from stretching across his face.

“I doubt it.”

On the radio, Megadeath stopped singing about shots of Thorazine and began to play piano instead. A beautiful, haunting melody that Crowley scowled at. _Not now_ , he thought. _Go away._

“I just called to see how you were doing,” Aziraphale said, thankfully not seeming to hear the music. “Things are just fine here. Bernadette is getting on well and has even flowered a bit.”

“Bernadette?” Crowley asked over the sounds of David Mustaine quietly, and badly, crooning: ~~ _I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don_ _’t really care for music, do you?~~_

“Mm! Your plant! I hope you like the name. I mean I supposed I didn’t have to name it but it’s rather difficult to talk to it without addressing it, if you know what I mean.”

Crowley groaned. Damned angel was probably giving that plants all sorts of ideas. He would just have to let Aziraphale keep it because it would be absolutely impossible to contain when he took it back.

“It-- well she,I think! Seems rather fond of Mozart. Not so much of Hayden but there’s no accounting for taste. I’m even thinking of purchasing some Louis Armstrong or Ella Fitzgerald. I’m sure she misses bebop.”

“Look, Velvet Underground is not bebop.” A beat. “Have you even _heard_ bebop, angel? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

“Well I have been rather avoiding it, but I’m willing to give it a go.” A beat. ~~ _a baffled king composing hallelujah_ ~~ Mustaine continued sounding somewhat strangled, and Aziraphale must of have heard it because his own voice was tight as he said: “Oh and my tail coat has _finally_ come back from the tailor’s! It’s been _simply_ ages since I’ve worn one and it’s a good thing too since it’s got to be ready for Christmas Eve. Though I will say this is one Gala I’m not particularly looking forward to.”

…Wait… tail coat?

“Where is this gala?” Crowley asked, though already he knew the answer. The spikes vanished from his coat and he flopped back further on the bed, the pillow soft as an embrace.

“Withywine, I believe. Why?”

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Aziraphale was going to be there. Aziraphale was going to be at the bloody dance with him. His heart rose, then sunk, then rose again. He would have to redesign his outfit from the bottom up. No! That would look like he was trying too hard. But he had to try a little bit. Not that they would do anything at the gala. Talk maybe. Could he tempt the angel to dance? Platonically? Could he do that somehow without fucking everything up?

Could he resist doing that when he saw Aziraphale there? Dressed up? It had been ages since he’d seen the angel in formal attire and he tried to remind himself how much of a ball of fluff the angel would be and completely against his style and they would look ridiculous.

He’d be eating too, Crowley thought, squirming absently on the bed in mute frustration. Sampling everything.

No stopping the rats now, came the second thought.

He would have to do some quick emergency miracling. Maybe find some gourmet caterer so Aziraphale could sample all the best pastries. He could just imagine him lifting a delicate petit four, of biting into the flakey pastry with perfect teeth, the sheer fucking _bliss_ that would come over his face.

_~~Your faith was strong but you needed proof, you saw her bathing on the roof, her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you~~_

_Shut up!_ Crowley thought at it. _Shut up! Shut up!_

“Are you there?” Aziraphale said quietly.

Shit! He had to say something. Words flew from him. Or rather the words he couldn’t say danced in his mind. Words of temptation. Words of affection.  He wanted to murmur into the angel’s ear how they would dance the night away and nothing else would matter.

Except everything else would matter and that was the fucking point!

He scrambled for something to keep the angel from fleeing or becoming concerned and finally his brain lobbed a realization at him.

“Er…wait the Withywine Gala is on the twenty-third.”

“What?” Aziraphale sounded shocked. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, dear.” And then. “Well, no harm done, I suppose. Though I will have to tell Argyle.”

Argyle. He bared his teeth at the name. Ruddy Argyle. Of course he would be there too. Crowley would have to watch Aziraphale dance with him and spend the whole evening fake dating him. Of course he could fake date Zara in return and that would show him. They’d have to anyway if they were going to pretend to be a couple.

_~~Love is not a victory march, it_ _’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah_. ~~

_Fuck you_ , Crowley thought. He was tempted to reduce the radio to a pile of sludge. Instead he rolled onto his stomach, burying his forehead into the pillow. The temptation continued as Mustaine continued about the holy dark moving in someone special and he bit his knuckle to prevent himself from even thinking about that kind of thing.

“How is your significant other?” Aziraphale asked gently and for a moment Crowley hated him too. He rolled onto his back once more, arm crossed over his eyes. He could lie, he could tell the truth. He wanted to tell the truth, but somehow he wondered if Aziraphale knew the truth already. Or suspected it. Wanted to keep it going whatever the case. It was absolute horseshit and Crowley wanted to ditch the whole thing. Only he knew Aziraphale didn’t. That Aziraphale needed it.

“Fine.” Which wasn’t a lie.

“You look very good together, I must say.”

So? He wanted to say. Who cared how they looked? What did that have to do with anything? Did that mean the angel thought _he_ looked good like that? He should try to do it more in the future, just so he could get another good look and decide.

“It’s alright,” he said with a half shrug and plucked at a loose thread.

Another bout of silence filled with things unsaid. He closed his lips to prevent him from saying them, from spilling them out into the air like seeds scattered from a dandelion head. It wouldn’t help. It would make things worse. He knew it.

~~ _It_ _’s not a cry you can hear at night, it’s not somebody whose seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah~~_

_“_ Well—” Aziraphale said as if he’d heard it. As if he’d taken it to heart. “I suppose I ought to go now.”

No.

No sod this.

Sod all of this.

He wasn’t going to let a radio tell him how to feel or fucking anyone. It was not going to be some maudlin pining romance. Not any more.

“Hey, Angel, listen.”

“Crowley, I—”

“No, seriously, just listen.” He clicked his fingers and a jamming guitar began to play. The opening to “Guess I’m Falling in Love”. Not the greatest song to start out with but also not news. “ _That_ is Velvet Underground. Not bebop. Okay? It’s got a completely different energy.”

He got up and looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting his outfit here and there. His goal was to create the perfect blend of something to both piss of Waterburn and to invite admiring angel eyes.

~~ _I got my fever, in my pocket & it's down to my shoes. Hey, baby, guess I'm falling in love_~~ Reed sang.

“Oh! That is? My, it’s actually a bit catchy. Hmmm—”

Crowley felt a surge of something like pride and excitement as he heard the real approval in the angel’s tone. Hell yeah it was a bit catchy.

“You know I might give this er… What would you call it? What genre?”

Proto-punk experimental rock that was _avant garde_ in its time and was more on the artistic side than not, but not the kind of artistic that Aziraphale could really digest. Best make it simple.

“Rock and roll.”

“Rock and roll,” Aziraphale repeated and just the way he said it, with the same emphasis on each word, made it sound like the lamest thing imaginable. It was about fire and excitement not a sodding tea party.  “I might have to give this rock and roll a try.”

For someone’s sake, what had he gotten himself into?

“If you want we can…hang out and listen to it—”

“Well I—”

“After the New Year. I know a bistro that has great cover bands. We could do lunch.”

“You know… I think I’m down for what you’re laying, as the kids say.” Aziraphale tittered. _Tittered_. Crowley scowled at his reflection.

“No one in the history of _ever_ has said that.”

“Haven’t they?” There was a tone to Aziraphale’s voice that gave Crowley the distinct impression that Aziraphale was doing this on purpose. Doing it on purpose and he’d fallen for it like a chump. Bastard. His reflection was grinning at him and he hated it.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said. “I’d better go. I’m teaching myself to waltz and so far it’s going horribly. Brooms make horrible dance partners. No offense.”

“Oi!” Crowley said, catching on a little too late. “I can dance you into the floor!”

“I’m sure you can, darling,” Aziraphale said in a wonderfully teasing tone that melted like honey in his ears. “Ta ta!” And he hung up before Crowley could get a rebuttal. Oh but he would. He’d definitely have to dance with Aziraphale at the gala now, just to prove he could. In his reflection his grin grew wicked. Now _that_ was more like it.

~ _I got in my pocket, hey babe. Everything that I can have_.~ Reed sang. ~ _I've got thing in my loveline. It's gonna work out fine. It's gonna be alright_ ~

And for the first time in a while, Crowley truly believed it.

 


End file.
